Exaltation of the Morning Rose
by Zayrastriel
Summary: When Blaine finds himself shipped off  like a sack of potatoes  by his homophobic brother - and King - to marry a foreign prince, he doesn't realise just what's been set in place. And Kurt just wishes Blaine would loosen up a little. Fantasy AU, Klaine
1. Change

**Title: **Exaltation of the Morning Rose (Exaltation)

**Pairing: **Blaine/Kurt

**Warning/s: **Sexual themes, crude language

**A/N: **So this is complete AU, and fairly experimental. Basically, most of the story will be set in the Low Lands, a fairly large but limitedly-populated country that Kurt's just become Prince Regent of after his father's death. Parts will also be set in the Sun Kingdoms, a group of small kingdoms in the wonderfully-climated north ruled by Blaine's brother. There will also be references to other kingdoms/countries/provinces/regions.

(Sorry for the names, I'll probably change them when I come up with something that works in my head. Just take them as rough translations of the names or something.)

Just a note: Both Blaine and Kurt's parents are dead, which isn't canon but...yeah, canon probably doesn't really apply to this.

I hope you enjoy it!

**Obligatory Disclaimer: **I don't own Glee, etc. etc. etc. If I did, I'd have a better computer.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 1: Change<strong>

"Prince Blaine, we're almost there."

Blaine looks around him, at the barren plains layered in more snow than he's ever wanted to see in his life, and despite all the vows he had made with himself to _accept _his fate with dignity, he can't help the explosive sigh that leaves his lips.

"Gods," he mutters under his breath, "why me?"

"Your Highness?"

He shakes his head. "Nothing." But the panic's rising within him, curling like a fire-snake in Blaine's stomach, threatening to engulf him from within. For a moment he wishes it would, because _oh Gods _then he could see Father again, and he wouldn't be here, an annoyance to an older, _heterosexual _brother, peddled away as easily as a handful of grain.

Andrielle stumbles suddenly, her hoof grating unpleasantly against a stone. Blaine, clutching clumsily to handfuls of reins and midnight-black mane, winces as the jolt stings against saddle-sores, both old and new. He's always enjoyed riding, from when he was a child, and reckoned himself to be more than passable on horseback; but by the end of the three weeks it had taken to reach the southern border of the Sun Kingdoms, Blaine would have been happy to never see a horse again in his life.

When Santana told him, a laugh in her eyes, that it would be another two and a half before they reached Lima, the ridiculously-named (in Blaine's opinion, anyway, because he's never really thought places should sound like misspelled fruit names) capital city of his new homeland…

…Blaine's almost positive he didn't break anything important. Like wedding presents, or bones, or heads.

…Though he did sprain his toe kicking a tree.

He can't help but smile ruefully at the memory, at the careful not-smiles on the faces of soldiers that he would have reprimanded but for the fact that he's known most of them since he was old enough to pick up a sword. David would have laughed, he thinks fondly, and Wes…

His brain, slow and sluggish in the damp cold, catches up with his thoughts and Blaine feels his smile vanish, good humour dissipated like _that!_

_Fucking Wes. Fucking David. _

Blaine wants to kick something. The only option available at the moment is Andrielle, though, and Blaine tends to prefer taking his anger out on people, for the simple reason that animals don't seem to have any comprehension of rank. Andrielle's got a temper to rival his when the need arises, which Blaine discovered the first and only time he tried to take a whip to her. If only Wes and David were here, he'd readily make them his new targets.

It's not that Blaine doesn't care for them; they're his brothers, or near enough, after all. (More his brothers than _Gabriel_, in any case.) Blaine's almost positive that Wes's ceremonial gavel is carved from wood of the old tree, fallen in a heat storm two summers ago, that they used to hide in when the three of them were too young to care about rank or politics or goddamn marriage. But he can't stop wishing that they hadn't decided that they knew what was best for him.

They're his best friends, and he's probably never going to see them again.

And so Blaine can't stop hating them, even just a little bit.

* * *

><p>"Hey, Dad."<p>

A particularly strong gust of wind almost threatens to ruffle Kurt's hair. He takes that as incentive, from some father-like spirit that may or may not be lingering in the mortal realm, to continue.

"_He's _almost here, you know. Yeah, _him_." Kurt bites his lip. "I wish you hadn't done it, you know. Done all that without telling me. And leaving me the throne. Not that it isn't a nice throne," he hastens to add. "But there was always Finn…"

He frowns, raising an eyebrow. "Though I have to admit, I don't think the country's ready for the reign of Rachel. And Finn. Technically Finn and Rachel, but I don't think I could find anyone who doesn't know who the _real _ruler would be. Between you and me, I think the Western Plains breathed a collective sigh of relief when she demanded to be married off to Finn. Quinn will make a pretty good Queen, I think, and Rachel's actually happy, because she's always going to be the centre of at least _someone's _world now."

Kurt, turning, drops to his knees, facing the towering statue. He rocks back till he's sitting on the ground, hard and cold, for once, unconcerned about the silk that'll probably be unusable after the damage the snow will probably do to it.

For a long moment he's silent, and then all the words rush out of his mouth, all at once –

"What if he doesn't like me?" Kurt demands, and he can hear his pitch climbing but he doesn't care right now. "What if we never get along? I know he's beautiful, I've seen the pictures, but what if he hates it here, what if he hates me? What if he's not actually gay and that bastard Gabriel just told me that and made him go along with it to get the alliance? What if…"

Tears well up in his eyes but he blinks rapidly till they go away, unwilling to acknowledge their presence with his hand. "What if…" His words are slower, his voice an almost-whisper. "What if I'm never as happy as you and Mum? You and Carol? Or Rachel and Finn? Even Quinn and Puck. I wouldn't mind if he were a douche – Puck's got that covered, and Quinn's happier than she ever was with Finn. I just…" Kurt's voice catches, and he has to swallow heavily before he can get the rest of the phrase out. "I just want to be happy," he finishes lamely, and he's painfully aware of how naïve and immature he sounds.

All the words have dried up now, like his tears, but Kurt can't bring himself to stand and walk away. So he sits, the dampness of his pants quickly turning into outright-wetness, till he hears an familiar, annoying and yet not unwelcome voice calling his name.

"…_Kurt? Kuuuurt! I know you're here, Kurt!_"

The atmosphere shatters, Rachel's voice carrying over what looks, as Kurt stands and turns, brushing snow off him, to be far too long a distance for anyone's voice to travel.

_But then_, Kurt thinks in reluctant admiration, _Rachel isn't everyone_.

"Oh, _there _you are!"

And there she is, standing at the heavy, ornate graveyard gates, as ridiculously-garbed as always. Kurt never thought _anyone_ could mis-wear the traditional southern robes, till he met Rachel for the first time. He thinks of it as a curious manifestation of magic's law of equivalence; for an angel's voice she's traded any sense she might ever have had of the aesthetic.

"What is it, Rachel?"

"He's here, he's here, he's here!" she exclaims, practically jumping up and down in excitement. Kurt still hasn't quite figured out why the arrival of this foreign prince inspires so much enthusiasm, but he can understand it.

Right now, though, any potential enthusiasm is shadowed by a nervous fear that twists in his stomach like a knot, as all his doubts come back in a rush.

"Already?" he demands, and that knot's not so much a knot now as some sort of growing parasite-fungus-mutant thing that's sending shivers down his limbs and causing his heart to beat much faster than it should.

"Weeell…" she hesitates. "Not really. But sort of. Brittany says she can see him in her near-sight, which means he'll probably be here soon. But you have to get ready!" She skips ahead of Kurt, somehow managing to stop her feet from sinking into the snow in a way that even Kurt, for all the years he has spent here as opposed to her one year marriage to Finn, has never quite been able to replicate.

She spins around suddenly to face him, brow creasing.

"Hey, Kurt," Rachel frowns, looking him up and down, "why are you so wet?"

Kurt rolls his eyes, starting to walk back towards the castle through the thick snow. "What do you think, Rachel?" he snaps. Normally he can deal with inane, pointless questions, but after the almost-crying he just indulged in, Kurt's not in the mood.

He senses rather than sees her eyes soften, her step become more subdued than is normal, and out of the corner of his eye he sees her hand flick upwards as she hums something under her breath.

Warmth embraces him, not oppressively but comfortingly, and the moisture drains from his clothing. If it were anyone else, he would thank them; Brittany, he'd give a soft smile he never shows anyone else; if it were Finn, he'd roll his eyes and make a scathing remark that could be construed as both gratitude and insult.

But this is Rachel, and so instead he says "_Music of the Night_? I didn't know murdering sociopaths appealed to you so much," raising an eyebrow as she grins, shrugging.

* * *

><p><em>This memory is more than familiar to Blaine – familiar enough to make him aware that he's dreaming, and dear enough that he doesn't care. He dreams of dark green foliage, of forests and the sparkling water of the Iyara falls that tower above a calm river that's so clear he can see the fish moving languorously, lazily.<em>

_Unable to resist, he leaps into the water, feeling it wash over his head. He emerges with a loud gasp to the sound of rich, warm laughter. _

_His father kneels by the water's edge and Blaine swims slowly towards him, leaning his elbows on the grass as his toes barely graze the riverbed. He smiles hugely at his father till a hand ruffles long, wet curls that almost reach to his shoulder; he scowls, but the older man simply smiles in turn, the slight curve of his lips saying just as much as Blaine's grin did._

"_You're mean," Blaine says, pouting at his father as he pulls himself from the water to sit beside him, feet trailing in the slight current._

"_Yes," James agrees with a chuckle. "But it's hardly my fault that you're so fun to tease, my boy."_

_Blaine doesn't say anything; just leans his head against his father's shoulder. The older man doesn't say anything, though Blaine's almost sure he's making a mess of the material._

"_Hey, dad…"_

_He feels James' head turn towards him, feels the arm wrap around his bare wet torso. "Yes, Blaine?"_

"_You love me, right?"_

_The arm stiffens, and Blaine's surprised by his father grabbing his chin, forcing him to look straight into large, hazel eyes, so like his own. "Of course," James whispers._

_Blaine bites his lip. "No matter what?"_

_His father sighs. "Is this about what happened earlier, Blaine? About what Gabriel said?"_

_Blaine nods, lip trembling and eyes downcast._

_He feels arms wrap around him, and he buries his face in his father's shirt, trying desperately not to let the tears fall._

"_No matter what, Blaine," James whispers into his ear. "No matter what."_

_Blaine. Blaine. Blaine…For some reason that word seems to echo, the voice changing slightly each time._

_Blaine._

_Odd. It sounds like a girl's voice – no, a woman._

Blaine.

_A strangely familiar woman._

"_Blaine. Hey, Blaine. Blaaaaine!"_

"Blaine!"

Blaine groans, lifting his head with an effort. "Go away, Santana. I'm trying to _sleep_," he grumbles automatically before he realises that a) he's still on horseback, b) Andrielle – scratch that, _none _– of the horses are moving, and c) everyone that Wes and David have managed to bribe to 'escort' him down south is staring at him, expressions ranging from amusement to condescension. Santana, who was obviously shaking him from where she sat on her own palomino, looks like she's about to start laughing.

He sits up quickly, embarrassment sending blood straight to his cheeks.

"Um," he says intelligently, before giving up and burying his face in his hands.

"Eloquent," Santana drawls, and he can just feel her rolling her eyes. Ignoring her, Blaine nudges Andrielle into a canter, and after a few moments he hears the others do the same.

"Hey hobbit, wait up!" Blaine hears Santana call from behind him, but he doesn't bother to slow down. Sure enough she catches up with him, turning in her saddle to face him even as their horses move into a gallop. Part of Blaine wishes she'd fall, if only so that he'd have the chance to bruise her ego once compared to the million times she does it to him. The other, more sensible half, knows that she's literally magic with horses and that there's more chance of the two of them having sex than of her ever falling.

"You should have seen your face," she snickers, "and do you realise you were _drooling_? I bet you were dreaming about whatever you gay guys do when you get it on."

Blaine doesn't respond, concentrating on the feeling of the wind in his hair, the pleasure of speed (and trying to ignore the alternately dull and sharp aching of his ass and lower back.

"You _were_, weren't you?" Santana demands, triumph in her voice. "I bet you were dreaming about Burt, or Kirk, or whatever that Hummel kid's name is! Don't get your hopes up, hobbit, from what I've heard he's-"

He tugs sharply on Andrielle's reins, and responsive as ever despite her anger issues, she slows to a standstill almost instantaneously; too fast for even Santana, magic or not. He laughs loudly as her horse, racing past him, stumbles and she's almost hurled off the front of the saddle, only her ridiculous amount of control saving her from an appropriately embarrassing fall.

"What do you want, Santana?" Blaine asks mildly, riding leisurely to where she's stopped, trying to get her breath back. Santana scowls at him, but he keeps his expression void of anything other than a serene smile till she eventually tires of it.

"Here," she says shortly, and she thrusts something into Blaine's arms.

He blinks twice, looking down at the pot. The pot is obviously northern; sun-baked, a rich red-brown. It's three-quarters-filled with dark soil. And there's a tree in it.

"It's a tree."

"Observant."

Blaine blinks again.

"A sapling," he corrects himself.

"Are you always this smart? Or is this just a one-off thing?"

One more blink. "An orange sapling."

"Can I hit you?"

He's not understanding. "It's one of _your _orange tre-"

"I'm going to hit you."

"I don't understan-"

"Finally. I knew this intelligence thing couldn't last long."

"But-"

"Just _shut up_."

"…Okay."

_Blaine remembers the first (and last) time, four years ago, that he ever saw Santana cry, and the first (and hopefully last) time he'd ever seen her angry. He'd only been thirteen, but he remembers He remembers the fire that had danced on his palm, remembers the wind that had blown it away and towards the tall tree of thick green leaves and large orange orbs of fruit. He remembers his frantic attempt to capture water, to douse the fire._

_He remembers the month afterwards, when she didn't acknowledge his existence till he finally broke down and apologised for the right things - not for destroying the tree (the last gift her mother had given her before she died in the Wars), because after a bit of trimming the tree was fine. Not for playing with magic when he didn't know how to use it. _

_Blaine remembers apologising, tears in his eyes, for that moment when Santana thought he'd gotten himself killed._

_Because most of all, he remembers Santana's expression as the air stilled and the fire died, and remembers turning to see no expression on her dark features, and not understanding why he was so terrified of a cousin barely his height, only a few months older than him._

They ride in silence, till finally (finally) they're at the outskirts of high, thick steel gates. Santana rides forwards and, in typical Santana fashion, announces who they are and where they're from. After a suitably long period of bowing and etc. etc. they're met by a Lord William of House Schuester (Santana whispers something in Blaine's ear about stupid names and he fights to keep the grin off his face) who's apparently been sent to escort them to the castle.

The word 'escort' is sounding more and more like 'prison guard' to Blaine, but he smiles when appropriate, tries to remember what David taught him about southern customs, and follows obediently, Santana by his side.

"Hey, Santana," Blaine says when as they ride as the castle looms ahead of them, as menacingly ominous as he'd always thought it would be.

"…What."

"Thanks."

"Fuck off."

* * *

><p><strong>Other characters will be making an appearance, rest assured.<strong>

**Apart from Klaine, I'm not entirely sure what other pairings to put in...do you have any requests? I'm really open to most things.**

**Once again, please tell me if you think this is worth continuing!**


	2. Arrival

**A/N: **I just wanted to say thank you to everyone who reviewed. I really appreciate it! And once again, I appreciate anything you guys have to say - whether it's comments or just your expression of how amazing/terrible/mediocre/okay-ish it is xD

(Also, I've added a bit to last chapter so you might want to read that before reading this chapter.) Hope you guys enjoy it!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 2 - Arrival<strong>

_Her eyes were like his are (a sort of blue-green-silver amalgamation of all common eye colours in the south.) She had slender, soft hands, a clear, bell-like voice, and her smile was the most beautiful thing on the planet._

_And the only person who loved her more than Kurt did was Kurt's father._

_Her eyes, her hands, her voice, and her smile; that's what stays with Kurt, ten years after the morning when she opened a small gold box, a present for Kurt's seventh birthday from some foreign dignitary, and inhaled fire-snake venom straight into her lungs._

_Kurt doesn't visit her grave like he visits his father's, but only because there wasn't enough of her to bury. _

Finn's standing by himself when Kurt, hair still damp from his bath, makes his way out into the main courtyard. A light layer of snow covers the ground, the remnants of a surprisingly nice morning. The sun seeps lazily through thin clouds.

It's a nice day, and so despite himself, Kurt smiles when Finn turns around, almost falling over his own feet. "You seem excited," he comments lightly, voice lacking the usual bite that Finn's clumsiness always inspires within him.

"Well, yeah!" Finn exclaims. "Aren't you?"

Kurt shrugs, because _yes _he would be nervous – if he was letting himself think about it. Which he's not, because then he'd be nervous.

_Oh, great_.

There's a silence, and Finn starts fiddling with his shirt. "Oh, in the name of the bloody Goddess…" Kurt mutters, reaching up flatten Finn's collar instinctively before he realises what he's doing.

His hands freeze in the action as he remembers with a start what happened the last time he did something like this, and he releases the collar, stepping backwards.

But Finn just runs a hand through his hair sheepishly, re-ruffling already-ruined hair with an embarrassed chuckle.

"Sorry Kurt, I…" Finn trails off. "Hey, why did you stop?" he demands, looking too much like a kicked puppy for Kurt to face. He lowers his eyes.

"You know," he mutters.

He looks up to see Finn's eyes widen. "What? What, no. No, Kurt, you're my little brother now, you don't have to…" Finn groans, and despite himself Kurt winces as that hand returns to that bloody hair.

"Alright, alright!" Kurt snaps, reaching back up and smoothing the collar properly. When he's done, he makes to step away; but Finn grabs him before he can, and Kurt finds his face buried in Finn's shirt in what he thinks might be a hug. Which , he reflects, is nice in theory, but Finn's height (how on _earth _does Rachel manage?) makes it rather hard to breathe, so after a moment of near-suffocation Kurt's relieved to feel Finn's grip loosen.

Again, though, when Kurt tries to move backwards, Finn stops him – this time by grabbing both his arms, firmly but gently.

Kurt frowns upwards (again, no mean feat, considering his height. Sometimes, Kurt finds himself on the verge of asking Rachel how their relationship actually _works_.) "What's wrong?"

Finn looks away, and without looking down Kurt can tell that he's shifting his weight from side to side. "...you…happy…" he mumbles.

"_Pardon_?"

"…Ijustwantyoutobehappy."

Kurt sighs, because he knows Finn does want that. But he's also known, since from the moment he realised that he much preferred talking about boys with Brittany than about girls with…well, whichever boy was around…that 'happiness' for him wouldn't work the same way as it does for other people.

He wants to explain that to Finn, that and the convoluted mix of fear and amazement and _hope _he felt when he first heard about this northern Prince. But he can't, and so he's relieved when he hears someone call out to him.

"Your Highness!" It's Mike – _Michael_, really, but that's another name reserved for awkward usage in court. "Lord Finn," he acknowledges with a brief nod to Finn. "They're almost here, Mr Schue sent a message from the gates."

Kurt bites his lip. "Thanks, Mike," and the captain nods, leaving them alone once more.

_Mr Schue_. It was Brittany's idea when they were young, studying together under Lord William's tutorship, and yet the name's stuck. Even now when they're in court, Kurt has to resist the urge to call him by the affectionate title. 'Lord William of House Schuester' just doesn't roll off _anyone's _tongue, and Kurt's suddenly gripped by the temptation to just change the name of Mr Schue's House; but then, he realises, that would mean that they couldn't…

"Uh, Kurt?"

Kurt looks up, trying to meet Finn's eyes. "What, Finn?"

"You're doing the, you know, the 'I'm pretending to think about things of great significance so that Finn'll leave me alone but I'm actually just mind-word-vomiting' thing," Finn says, complete with obscure hand gestures that could mean everything and nothing. Kurt's impressed despite himself, because he didn't know Finn knew the word 'significance', till his step-brother adds, "that's what Rachel always says you're doing, anyway."

Of _course_. "And I was actually thinking you'd come up with that all by yourself. Silly me," Kurt retorts, rolling his eyes, but Rachel runs up at that point, so Finn doesn't get the chance at a more eloquent protest than "_Hey!_"

Not that he probably would have. Finn's verbal clumsiness can be charming – Kurt winces, as he always does now, at the reminder of just _how _charming he found it, barely a year ago – but it doesn't lend itself to prolonged conversation, unless said prolonged conversation involves pillows and friendly punches.

Kurt's sort of aware that he's doing the word-vomit thing again, but that parasite-mutant-fungus thing is back in his stomach.

_Are they here yet? _he wants to ask, but that would be undignified.

And so Kurt stands there, letting Rachel's chatter wash over him as the wind billows lightly through his thick cloak.

And he waits.

* * *

><p>"<em>What the <em>fuck_, Gabriel?"_

_Gabriel doesn't even look up at Blaine, his gaze not moving from the page that Blaine's pretty sure he's not even reading. "Manners, Blaine. I am your King," and though Blaine didn't realise it was even possible, he thinks he might hate his brother just a little bit more._

"_What on earth are you thinking, your _Majesty_?" Blaine says, sarcasm dripping from every word. "You know that Father wouldn't stand for th-"_

_His brother finally glances up, and if not for his anger Blaine might have recoiled at the indifference and faint disgust in Gabriel's eyes. "Yes, well," he drawls, "Father is dead. And I am your King." Gabriel pushes himself to his feet, rounding the desk, and Blaine takes an unconscious step back. "And you _will _do the one useful thing you will ever be able to do for your country, and you will. Not._ Complain_."_

"_Bu-But" Blaine can hear the weakness in his voice and hates himself for it, "you can't just peddle me off li-like a _horse_!"_

_Gabriel shrugs. "It wasn't my idea, I can tell you that. If you want to blame somebody, blame those meddling _friends_" he sneers the word 'friends' as though he can't quite believe Blaine has any, "of yours."_

_Blaine _has _blamed them, though he doesn't tell Gabriel that. And though their explanations and excuses haven't made him forgive them yet, they've only made him wish even more that his brother had been the one to die in that battle, and not his father._

_"Besides," Gabriel adds, "who else are you going to marry, Blaine? You should be grateful I'm even allowing you to indulge your little…perversion."_

_Blaine bites his lip till it bleeds, the copper tang bitter in his mouth, and heads towards the door, desperate to leave before he completely loses his temper. He's just left the room when he hears his brother's voice._

"_Oh…and Blaine?"_

_He turns back just as Gabriel's hand swings back, and he can't move quickly enough to avoid the brutal blow to his cheek. As his hand flies to his face in shock, Gabriel's other hand curls into a fist._

_Blaine collapses to the floor, coughing heavily; but the blows don't stop, though Gabriel has stepped back. Instead, it's the air itself that's beating him, piercing through his clothing as if it's not there and he's being whipped like a common criminal._

_After what seems like an eternity, the faint hum of magic silences, and Gabriel kneels before him, grabbing his chin gently in a mockery of brotherly affection._

"_Never speak back to me again."_

"_Sans'aera_, your Highness."

Blaine blinks. "Huh?" Beside him, Santana brings her hand to her face, and without looking he knows she's got the 'why do I know him?' expression that she somehow never tires of using around him.

"We're _here_, you idiot," she growls between gritted teeth. With a start, Blaine realises that the horses have stopped moving, and that they're in a large courtyard, his guards and other, unfamiliar, people milling around on grey-white stone that appears to be the only building material here.

_Sans'aera_. The word translates infuriatingly in his head. For a split second, it's unintelligible till the icy winds blow away the last vestiges of his sleepy haze, and he remembers that, though Althaeri is spoken in the south, the dialect and ceremonial language can sometimes form a whole other tongue.

Almost unconsciously, his hands reach instinctively to clutch the pot balanced precariously before him on the front of his saddle. Clambering stumblingly, haltingly, off his horse as frozen muscles refuse to respond, Blaine slips on the snow, falling with a loud _thud! _to the ground.

_Sans'aera. Welcome._

"_Shit_," he curses, sitting up quickly and looking around him in panic, because Santana is going to _kill _him if that pot breaks…

"It's alright, I've got it." For a moment, he thinks that voice, high and musical, belongs to the short girl he'd caught a glimpse of when he was looking around the courtyard.

"Finn, can you take this?" Blaine hears a mumbled something, and he looks up…

"Hey, are you okay?"

…into the most beautiful eyes he's ever seen in his life.

"…Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine."

As Mr. Beautiful-eyes reaches out a hand to help Blaine up, he can't help but feel the slightest twinge of hope that maybe, somehow, everything will sort of work out.

* * *

><p>King Gabriel had sent Kurt paintings of his younger brother, and once even a mage to reproduce his likeness.<p>

And sure, Kurt's heart had beat a little faster because, hey, he might have liked what he saw; but he never forgot to remind himself that an attractive body didn't necessarily mean a beautiful soul and even beautiful souls could be boring as shit.

But _dear Goddess he's gorgeous! _

As Prince Blaine of House Anderson stands, Kurt realises with a jolt of surprise and slight amusement that, for once, he's actually taller. But where Kurt's long and slender and maybe a bit more feminine in shape than he'd like, Prince Blaine gives off the appearance of being tall and muscled while only actually reaching up to around Kurt's eyebrows.

"Your Majesty?"

_I'm staring. Shit_.

Kurt scrabbles frantically for something to say, but the best he can come out with is "it's 'Your Highness', actually. I'm only Prince Regent right now, till I turn 18. Which is sort of stupid and doesn't really make sense, because I swear that should mean that I'm safeguarding the throne for someone else but I'm not really, but there's really no one to safeguard it for me except Finn and he doesn't really count any…" He trails off, because Prince Blaine is looking at him strangely.

_And now I'm babbling. Again._

Kurt takes a deep breath.

"What I _meant _to say," he says, praying that some miracle will occur and the last thirty seconds of his life will be wiped from his memory, "is _sans'aera_. To the Low Lands."

* * *

><p><em>Sans'aera<em>.

If only.

Blaine wants his pot back, suddenly, even though he had spent the last hour or so wishing he had passed it to someone else (no matter how offended Santana would have been). Now that he's not in danger of falling asleep into the thick leaves and balls of half-formed fruit, however...

It's not that King – _Prince _– Kurt seems unpleasant. Far from it, though Blaine had to strain his ears to even hear, let alone understand, the torrent of words he'd just said.

But Gods help him, he wants to go _home_. It's cold here, the sort of cold that seems almost to be a product of magic; it bites through all the layers of clothing he's had to don, and seeps down into his bones, soaking into his soul like a sponge.

Prince Kurt turns, presumably to lead him indoors, and Blaine makes to follow.

"Blaine."

It's Santana. "Yeah?" he asks, and his voice sounds dull and lifeless to his own ears. She seems to think the same, because he catches what looks like it _might _be a glimmer of a _glimmer _of concern in her eyes before it darts away and the Santana he's used to returns.

"I'll have to go soon."

_What?_

"What?" Blaine whispers, confused and disoriented. "Go? Where?" Santana rolls her eyes, but the action doesn't seem to carry the same level of derision and bitchiness it normally does.

"North, you fool. Back home."

"But I thought…" _I thought_. He didn't think, he realises bitterly. He never thinks; just assumes. Of _course _Santana doesn't want to stay down here, in the cold and ice when she (when he) is made for the blazing sun and light.

So Blaine doesn't finish the sentence. "When are you leaving?"

Santana shrugs. "I'll find out what they're doing with that tree I gave you – which I see you've already lost, by the way – and when I've told the gardener exactly what'll happen if it dies, I'll probably leave."

Blaine nods numbly, and watches as she walks away. He wants to call out to her, to say _something_, but he doesn't know what.

At least now he knows just why she gave him that orange tree.

"Your Highness?"

It's…Finn, he thinks it is. Tall guy, expression of benign confusion on his face; the profile his tutor made him memorise before he left flashes before his eyes. Prince Kurt's stepbrother. "Lord Finn," he acknowledges.

"Hey um…Kur- I mean, _Prince _Kurt" Blaine smiles slightly, not mockingly but gently at Lord Finn's sort-of adorable clumsiness, "wants to know if you want to get changed. You know. Before the ceremony. And stuff."

Odd – with Prince Kurt, Blaine didn't really realise – maybe because they barely spoke – but now he realises just how different the dialect is; how syllables that would roll easily off Blaine's tongue become sharp and pointed here in the south. "I'd like that," Blaine replies. "If it's not too much hassle."

"Of course not!" Lord Finn smiles widely, enthusiastically, and Blaine can't help but smile back; a smile that vanishes as soon as the taller man turns away.

The guards are going to return north tomorrow. Santana…she hasn't specified when but he knows that she hates the cold almost as much as he does, so she won't stay for long, no matter how much he knows she doesn't want to leave him alone.

_Alone_.

Tears form in his eyes, but the continuous blasts of cold air dash them away.

_Sans'aera, Blaine, _Blaine thinks to himself, and he really can't stop the laugh that shifts halfway through to a cough, dry and hacking.

Lord Finn turns towards him, slight concern on his face. "You okay?"

Blaine forces a smile onto his face. "Yeah," he says. "Fine."

* * *

><p><strong>Blaine's brother...yeah. And I realised as I was writing this that might seem weird that Blaine didn't use magic against his brother. There are reasons!<strong>

**Sorry if the details aren't explicit enough xD but all shall become clear.**

**I've got exams right now but the next chapter should come out...soon...**

**Thanks for reading!**


	3. Complications

**A/N: **I'm currently half-asleep and dead after a French exam that was possibly the most boring exam I've ever done. So please excuse any dodgy stuff/point it out to me and I promise I will fix it.

Anyway.

I HAVE A PLOT! Like, a full thing. As in, the whole story (around 20+ chapters planned out in detail.) Complete with lots of Klaine, political intrigue, Klaine, magic, and...yeah, Klaine. So now, I'm going to have to avoid just word-vomiting the entire plot through exposition rather than actual story.

...and you totally don't need to know this. I blame anything stupid I'm saying on the drunk-like haze that is extreme tiredness.

So, just to sort of clarify a few details:

Both Blaine and Kurt's parents are dead. Most of the action is going to be set in the southern Low Lands (which have a name but there will be an explanation in-story) with some (mostly flashbacks) set in the Sun Kingdoms of the north (which also have a proper name). If you have a problem with my geographical weather climate orientation, blame it on the fact that I'm Australian. North = warm for us.

I do not own Glee, blah blah blah.

Thanks to everyone who reviewed last chapter/for the faves. I love you guys!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 3 - Complications<strong>

"_Santana, _please_…" Wes pleads, averting his eyes as Santana rolls off the bed, obviously but unashamedly naked_

"_Oh, _grow up_," Santana retorts. "We're meant to be fucking, right? And you're meant to be married." He flinches again as Santana enunciates the 'k' carefully, pulling her underwear off the lamp where she'd flung them the night before, tipsy and uninterested in anything other than sleep. "Not very convincing if you can't even look at a naked chick."_

"_Oh, shut up," Wes mutters as Santana tries without success to lace up her undershirt. _

"_Whatever. Be useful and help me with this. You know, _before _your wife walks in."_

"_No," she hears him growl, even as he moves behind her._

"_I don't get it, you know," she says idly, holding her hair away from her neck with one hand._

"_Get what?"_

"_You know. The whole 'pretending to cheat on your wife with a chick so you can actually cheat on her with your best friend' thing."_

_She feels Wes sigh, the breath tickling the back of her neck, but he doesn't reply, because they both know she _does _get it. It's the same reason she hasn't spoken to Sara since Sara was whipped for…_

_Santana swallows uncomfortably. She knows she's a bitch, but she can't think about Sara without the guilt welling up inside of her._

"_Done." Wes steps back and Santana moves to sit on the bed, not bothering with her dress for the moment._

"_You're leaving today, aren't you?"_

"_What, me and the hobbit?" she asks. It says a lot about how well West knows her that he doesn't protest about her less-than-polite name for Blaine. "Yeah, we are. You should know; you're the one who's selling him off to that pretty little prince down south li-"_

"_Yes, yes, a sack of potatoes," Wes interjects impatiently. "I've been over this with Blaine."_

_Santana grins maliciously. "Fun times?"_

"_Oh, definitely," Wes replies dryly, and Santana restrains a laugh. This is why she went with Wes over David. _

_Well, this and the fact that the idea of David being forced to have sex with a chick, when the only thing he cares about fucking is standing right in front of her, is perfect revenge for that time he spilt wine on her third-favourite dress._

_(Let it not be said that Santana forgives.)_

_As she's pulling on that very same dress, Wes sighs._

"_Santana, you need to do something."_

_Santana turns to look at him, confused because Wes isn't normally a vague person. "What?"_

_Wes bites his lip and opens his mouth, but nothing comes out and he closes it again, frowning as his eyes shut. "Damnit," he mutters under his breath. "I don't know how to say it."_

_She raises an eyebrow, confused but unwilling to show it. "Look," he finally says, "just...stick with Blaine, okay?"_

_Santana frowns. "What?"_

"_You have to stay down south with him. Make up some excuse – break your leg, rob the royal treasury, sleep with someone, sleep with Lord Finn's wife – I mean," Wes adds quickly, eyes darting around the room though the amount of magic she could sense around it when she entered would be enough to keep out a God, "Lord Finn."_

_Her face remains smooth – she thinks, anyway – despite the part of her that cringes at the slip. "No thanks," Santana drawls. "I don't do the cold very well."_

"_Probably because you don't do clothing very well, either," Wes mutters. She'd hit him, but even she has to admit that he's right. _

"_Well?" she asks instead, pushing herself to her feet and placing her hand on her hip. _

_Wes sighs. "Look, Santana, I'd tell you more if I could. But I…can't. I honestly _can't_. Just…please."_

_There're a million things she could say to that, but when Santana looks at the twisted conflict on Wes's face, she relents. "Fine," she growls. "But you owe me."_

"Make up some excuse," Santana mutters under her breath, remembering Wes's words. "Fucking wanker."

Santana's always prided herself on her navigational ability, if only because it's about a million times better than Blaine's would ever be.

And so she refuses to admit that she could ever be…

_Fuck. I'm lost._

To be honest, she's not entirely sure of what she's looking for – she started off heading to the gardens, but decided that it'd be more enjoyable to see how whichever idiot that took care of gardening here would deal with a plant they've probably never seen before; and to bash their brains out when they failed.

Right now, Santana _thinks _she _might _be looking for the royal treasury. She got a glimpse of Pinn or Kinn or whatever that beanstalk's name is when she was out in the courtyard, and…just no. _No_. Even if she was actually attracted to men…_no_.

And that midget that Santana's on the verge of granting Blaine's nickname to wasn't much better. Santana doesn't like people who talk a lot, and she can't recall a moment when that hobbit _wasn't _speaking.

She's fairly sure Wes was joking about breaking her leg, because she's really not into self-harm. Now, breaking _someone else's _leg? Definitely.

And so now, she's in yet another endless, narrow corridor and surrounded by dark stone that only puts her more on edge than the cold has. Santana's spent her whole life around wide windows, sunshine, and vivid sandstone, and so she can only hope that 'stick with Blaine' means 'stick around for a few days till he's married and make sure he knows how sex works before leaving', and not 'never come back'.

_Eww._ The idea of staying _here _for the rest of her _life…_She's suddenly _very _glad that she's not Blaine…

"Are you okay?"

Growling, Santana pivots; completely prepared to unleash all the pent-up frustration building within her on yet _another _fool of a minor lord/lady who has nothing better to do than bug her.

The words stick in her throat, unsaid.

Santana knows that, if she was standing in front of a mirror with this sort of sickly sweet, shy, _feminine _smile on her face, she'd throw up. Unfortunately, it refuses to go away no matter what she tells herself, so she gives up.

"Yeah," she replies after a long moment of staring and self-smile-analysing, "I'm just looking for…" She doesn't even remember anymore so she ditches the sentence halfway through and starts again. "Who are you?"

The blonde girl before her smiles happily, and Santana's struck by the complete lack of guile in those innocent blue eyes. "I'm Brittany," the girl says cheerfully. "What's your name?"

"Santana," Santana replies, and when she smiles it's not just for this Brittany.

_Found my excuse._

* * *

><p>"This way!" Blaine groans as <em>Rachel <em>(because she refuses to let him use the honorific he's been taught to use) leads him down yet _another _corridor. It feels like they've been walking for hours, or at least for enough time for Blaine to gain a whole new appreciation for the architecture of his homeland.

_Which I might never see again_.

Blaine swallows heavily, but the lump in his throat doesn't go away.

"We're here!"

Though unenthusiastic, Blaine forces himself to prepare for the obligatory smile and gushing 'thanks' that will be expected when he sees the rooms that have been prepared for him, no doubt as dark and cold as the rest of the…

He sort of stops thinking when he walks through the door.

"Oh," Blaine says, and can just hear the mini-Santana in his head snort. "Um," he tries instead.

Blaine gives up on eloquence.

"Wow," he breathes softly, and hopes that carries his message.

"I suppose I'll take that as a compliment?"

Blaine's only heard that voice once before, but it still sends shivers down his spine as he turns his head to see his tall, porcelain-skinned, and far-too-beautiful soon-to-be fiancé leaning against a full-length mirror, arms crossed.

Despite the impression of calmness and serenity and _not _oh-dear-Goddess-please-tell-me-he-likes-it that Kurt's pretty sure he's oozing, he's anything _but _calm inside.

Kurt designed these rooms according to what he imagined Prince Blaine would like – warm, light, soft colours to remind him of the north, a heating ward that's been embedded into the stone of the room by mages so deeply that it'll take a hundred years before it starts fading.

The downside of it is that now, with no barrier of raging wind and snow and with actual proper lighting, Kurt's forced to struggle not to openly gape at the other boy, drinking in yet again the sight of smooth, sun-darkened skin; of unruly curls that Kurt has a sudden urge to run his hand through, if only to find out if the hair is as soft and thick as it seems to be.

Prince Blaine's hazel eyes, warmth brought out by the soft light illuminating them, widen in surprise as he turns to look at Kurt, before they crinkle in the corners, full lips curving in a smile. "Thank you," Blaine – Kurt's sick of thinking the honorific – murmurs softly, and Kurt can hear the sincerity in the tone. "It's…it's _beautiful_.

Kurt restrains the urge to swoon with difficulty. "It was no hassle, your Highness," he says stiffly and formally, hoping his voice sounds lower and more manly than the high squeak that resonates in his own ears.

"_No_," Blaine says, and he's evidently surprised by the forcefulness in his tone because he blinks slowly before continuing. "Rachel told me you designed it yourself, and…it's amazing. Really." Blaine doesn't seem to have any trouble sounding manly; on that last word, his voice deepens, almost husky in tone.

Kurt bites his lip hard enough to draw blood, and hopes that Blaine doesn't notice – which he shouldn't, unless he's as aware of Kurt's lips as Kurt is of his. "Thank you," he whispers. There's an awkward moment of strained silence as the pair of them rack their brains for something to say (Rachel watching on silently for once, content to be amused.) Abruptly, Kurt moves towards the door, halting just before he leaves.

"Rachel will help you out," he says, his back to Blaine, because he doesn't want to embarrass himself further. "I will see you at the welcoming feast."

"Prince Kurt!"

About to close the door, Kurt turns.

Blaine grins, flashing straight white teeth. "Thank _you_." Kurt nods, expressionless, and closes the door gently. He makes his way to his bedroom, locking the door firmly behind him and activating the silencing wards with the switches placed unobtrusively on the wall behind his bed.

And then Kurt leaps onto his bed and dances the most awkwardly exuberant dance he's ever danced, till he collapses onto the sheets, exhausted but content.

* * *

><p>Blaine would like to think that, later in his life, he'll laugh at the memory of being backed up against the edge of a large hot spring, trying to stop a girl around half his size from taking his shirt off.<p>

Right now, though, he's panicking. A lot. Because he's only been here a day, and he'd like very much to have a long, _private _bath during which he can soak in as much heat as is possible from the hot spring conveniently located in an adjoining room to his bedchambers, while reflecting upon the sort of strange, and somewhat suspicious events that have befallen him since he left Altha, the capital city of the Sun Kingdoms, those long months ago.

Like the fact that he's been shipped off (like a sack of potatoes) as groom (or bride, Blaine's not sure of the etiquette in this particular situation) to a _very _attractive, _male _foreign leader. With an orange tree. By a homophobic brother. And his two best friends. Who he thinks might be sleeping with each other, because Santana whispered something in Wes's ear before they left that turned his face red and cast an '_oh God she's talking about _us' glance at David, who also went red. None of whom are ever going to let him go home again.

"_Fuck_!"

Blaine pushes Rachel away, firmly but not harshly, as he realises that during his extensive internal monologue she's almost succeeded in unbuttoning his top button.

"Rachel, I'm really not comfortable with this," Blaine protests yet again, but Rachel just pouts at him (though, considering that he's never been attracted to women, it doesn't really do anything for him.)

"Really, Blaine, you don't need to worry. I'm married, and you're gay!" She beams as though that's a good reason for him to undress in front of her, something he hasn't done in front of a girl since he was fourteen and Santana threatened to break all of his fingers if he didn't go skinny-dipping with her.

"Rachel," he tries yet again, "I'm pretty sure I can handle a bath by myself." For a moment, Blaine considers just letting himself fall backwards into the water, but then he's almost positive Rachel will follow him in and wrest his clothing off his body anyway.

Blaine can't think of a polite way to get out of this situation, and he would just attempt to force his way past her, but he can sense her magical strength and wouldn't put it past her to take advantage of that if he were to take advantage of his superior physical strength.

"Rachel, _please_."

Oh Goddess, he can hear the begging in his tone and he hates it, but he's willing to do anything if she'll just stop.

Magical strength or no, Rachel seems to be rather lacking in intuition, particularly when it comes to reading other people; she just smiles more widely at his words.

"Blaine, you really shouldn't _be_," she lunges forward and he tries to take a step back, almost falling into the water behind him, "_so_," this time he sidesteps but she swipes out a leg and trips him, "_stubborn!_" she finishes in triumph, slicing her hand through the air and cutting his shirt neatly down the middle of the front and back, pulling it away from him before he can stop her.

Blaine's hands fly up in a futile attempt to cover his chest; but when he sees Rachel's expression change, he realises that there's no point. He pushes himself to his feet, allowing her a full view of what she's spent the last fifteen minutes trying to see.

There's a long silence, till finally Rachel breaks it.

"In the name of the _Goddess_…" she whispers. Blaine smiles bitterly.

"Yeah," he says, pushing himself to his feet and turning around to step into the water, ignoring her gasp of horror. "Something like that."

Almost unconsciously, Blaine's shoulders curve slightly, something he used to do when Gabriel and his friends picked on him as a child. It's a way for him to hide from the embarrassment and the shame that grows stronger and more painful by the second as he feels her gaze burn into the scars and welts that layer his torso.

Suddenly, Blaine feels Rachel's fingers on his back. He flinches heavily, and she moves her hand away immediately. There's a long moment where the only sound in the room apart from the slow bubbling of the hot spring is that of his harsh breathing.

Finally, though, he feels her trace the bruises and cuts lightly with her fingers, and he shudders, though she's careful to not truly touch his skin, simply letting her hands ghost over them as though she's mapping the warped flesh and ridged scars for future reference.

But as her hands move, he feels the constant ache and sting that he's learned to live with diminish slightly. He's impressed; not even the best healers in the north could help him – or maybe they just wouldn't, considering who did this…

"Your brother?"

Blaine bites his lip.

"_Oh, Blaine?"_

_Blaine struggles to his knees, lifting his head enough that he can sort-of meet hard green-brown eyes, so much like his own, but as cold as ice._

"_Do be a dear and don't tell anyone about this." Lips twist in a slight smirk. "Not that you'd have anyone to tell, of course. After all, it's not as if anyone will _care_. What with your…" a shudder runs down the lithe but muscular frame, so much taller than Blaine himself, "habits."_

As he closes his eyes and prepares to murmur the same story that he's told Santana a million times, he remembers eyes that he can't find a word for, a mix of quicksilver and the sea and the rainforests just outside Altha, and their fixation on Blaine's face and mouth.

A tiny spark of rebellion flares within Blaine.

"Yeah," he whispers.

* * *

><p>Yes, Wes and David are together in this. I don't normally ship them, but it works in the story. And Santana and Wes don't have sex, because that would be awkward.<p>

If you take the time to write a review, it's very much appreciated (=

And either way...thanks for reading!


	4. Scars

**A/N: **AND EXAMS ARE OVER!

...except for that one pesky annoyance of an exam next week, but I'm just going to pretend it's not there till two hours before when I'm cursing everything that made me a procrastinating bludger.

So, this chapter's possibly a bit heavy on exposition (sorry!) But there are a few concepts/aspects of this world that are vital to the actual plot. Blood magic, for one. And Gabriel's douche-ness, though I think that was evident last chapter. Also, the nature of the Sun Kingdoms (and to a lesser extent, the Low Lands.)

All of which ties into Blaine's character. Who, I've realised, comes off as way too unaffected by everything. I promise you, there is a reason.

Reviews are happy-making, so thanks to all those who left them. You guys are awesome. Also, I send my love out to the people who have faved/alerted this, though I promise extra love if you take the time to shoot me a review (=

...let's pretend my love converts into some form of hard currency.

ANYWAY, on to the chapter. Enjoy!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 4 - Scars<strong>

Blaine wants to ask how she guessed, but then remembers what Wes told him about Lady Rachel and her role in Prince Kurt's government – _foreign affairs_, in the tone Wes uses when he doesn't want to – so he nods instead.

She grabs his shoulders and turns him around to continue with his chest. "Air?" she asks calmly – too calmly. It's as if she's a different person altogether; the sparkling dark brown eyes have hardened slightly, narrowed in concentration. "Or fire? Raw magic?"

The magic tickles Blaine's skin, and he fights down a rather un-masculine giggle that's threatening to erupt.

He thinks back, trying to remember the tingles that he felt as Gabriel beat him, the tingles that, for Blaine, differ depending on the element used. "Air. I think some of the ones on the front might be raw, though." He remembers the last time this happened –the morning before they left.

"_Something to remember me by, brother."_

_Blaine just slumps to the floor, closes his eyes, and waits for the pain. Something about that seems to annoy Gabriel, because this time…_

Blaine grimaces at the memory. _Definitely _raw magic. Santana had realigned his ribs, but since she has less healing talent than anyone Blaine has ever met (admittedly, somewhat in keeping with her personality), it was Blaine himself who was forced, biting down on a towel to stop from removing his own tongue, to meld the bone matter together again…

"Did you fight back?"

He shrugs, partially at her but also in an attempt to shake off the shame that always wells up inside him when he thinks about this, despite everything that his logic tells him. "I can't," he mutters.

"Why?"

"Blood magic." The words roll off his tongue awkwardly with a bitterness that even Blaine can almost taste. "It means that members of a family can't kill each other," _which is why I'm still alive_, Blaine adds in his head, "but that no one can harm to the head of the family."

_Gabriel_.

In some ways, Blaine is grateful for the blood magic that's a permanent fixture of every noble family in the Sun Kingdoms (or at least in Altha) – he might not be able to fight off Gabriel, but at least it means that Gabriel can't kill or permanently injure Blaine, no matter how much he wants to.

In other ways, though…

"Hmm. Raw magic…" Rachel murmurs, and it's actually as if she's a different person; her face is calm, almost expressionless, with none of that slightly scarily intense energy that Blaine was starting to grow accustomed to. "That makes sense; my magic's not working quite as well on these…"

She starts to sing something, so softly the words are barely audible, hands starting to trace the scarring. Quiet though it is, however, it somehow manages to fill the room, resonating and echoing as Blaine realises suddenly that her voice is surprisingly beautiful.

"You're an _Eslarie_!" he exclaims as he feels magic soak into his skin, soothing the constantly-throbbing pain. Rachel looks up and smiles widely, her song halting for a moment.

"I haven't heard that word in a while," she says almost fondly. "Here, we're just called song-mages." Blaine's always wanted to meet an _Eslarie_ – or at least, ever since he got over the disappointment of not being one himself.

Blaine's sort of envious of Rachel, actually. She's found her _Talent_, and is obviously good at it; the scarring might not be vanishing, but the soreness and mild agony that Blaine's actually become accustomed since his father's death is gone.

And an _Eslarie_! Blaine still hasn't found his medium (or his _Talent_, for that matter), the way by which he can most effectively channel his powers. He's always dreamed of being able to _sing _magic (though he's not sure he'd do anything else but that all day). He remembers the day of his twelfth name-day, when Gabriel, smug smile of superiority and condescension on his face, told him that _Eslarie _find their medium by…their twelfth name day.

He'd cried the rest of that day.

"Done."

Blaine blinks. "Pardon?"

Rachel taps his bare chest lightly with her fingers, and Blaine flinches automatically, before gasping – not in pain, but in shock. "It doesn't hurt!" he exclaims, astounded. Rachel rolls her eyes.

"Of _course _not," she sighs in exasperation. "Did you know I've been healing since I was three? I'm practically born for it."

If he knew her better, Blaine might have made a joke; but as new as he is and as easily offended as Rachel seems to be, he decides to refrain. "Thank you," he smiles, and like when he said it to Prince Kurt, he means it with all his heart. Experimentally, he runs his fingers over the skin. The scars are still there, as hideous and disgusting as before, but at least the pain's gone. _At least no one will see them_, Blaine thinks, till he remembers just why he's down south.

He swallows, remembering Prince Kurt's flawless porcelain skin, and uncertainty wells up within him.

"Wow…" Rachel murmurs as he steps carefully into the hot spring. Turning to look at her, his foot slips and he falls with a yelp into the water. Rachel giggles as he swears under his breath, but the smile slips from her face quickly.

"What's wrong?"

Rachel shakes her head, as if to banish an unwelcome thought, as she pulls the blue ribbon holding her loose ponytail from her hair. "No," she says, starting to retie it again," it's just…wow. Blood magic."

_What? _ Blaine has to concentrate for a moment, rewind till he's found the bit of their conversation Rachel's obviously stuck on. "You haven't heard of it?" She shakes her head again.

"I have. Actually, I'm pretty sure everyone has. It's illegal here. And back home, too," Rachel explains. "Most places, for that matter."

Blaine swallows, grateful she can't see his face properly, half-submerged as he is in wonderfully warm water. _Illegal. _

It's hard to wrap his head around that idea. Blood magic, loyalty magic, binding magic – they're all commonplace in the Sun Kingdoms, necessary to keep together a confederation of loose kingdoms that would love northing more than to be constantly…well, at war. When Blaine's distant ancestor, with a stupidly dramatic name that Blaine can't bring himself to think won the Great War and seized control, he'd laid down ancient magics that haven't even begun to fade, a thousand years later.

The Low Lands revolve around the idea of _democracy_. Blaine doesn't understand that idea at all, but he doesn't think it would be polite to ask.

"I suppose it's a cultural thing," he murmurs politely.

"I suppose you're right," Rachel frowns, dragging a chair out of the corner of the room to sit in front of the marble surrounding the hot springs. "The Sun Kingdoms sound very…different. Did you know that it's the only place where homose-"

"It's not like that," Blaine rushes to say, before Rachel can finish the sentence. "At least, it's only really like that in Altha. And not before." _Not with Dad_. "But now…"

Blaine pauses.

"But now?" Rachel prompts him.

He hesitates for a moment, but figures that telling this story can't hurt; when they'd left the borders of Altha and were travelling across the outer kingdoms of his brother's 'empire', enough nobles had whispered their sympathies to Santana (via him, of course.)

"Well," he begins, "have you met Santana?"

_Blaine's got his arm around Santana, though she stands straight and firm, facing forward._

_But he can tell that she's not looking where it seems she is, at the girl screaming in agony in the centre of the court as her back is ripped open by the steady crack of the 'cat'. _

"_Well, Mistress Lopez." Blaine feels Santana's shoulder muscles clench beneath his arm. "Do you think that's enough?"_

_She doesn't reply, doesn't turn around as Gabriel moves to stand beside Blaine._

"_Mistress Lopez?"_

"_Santana," Blaine whispers between gritted teeth, "just _answer the goddamned question_."_

"_Only if you do, your Majesty," Santana says loudly, and courtiers glance at her before looking away, whispering to whoever's standing near them. But she doesn't look around._

_Her gaze stays fixed, even as Sara looks up through bedraggled strands of blonde hair clinging to her sweat-and-blood-streaked face. Tears flow down her cheeks and there's a horrible _melange _of pain and fear and betrayal in those soft blue eyes as she stares at Santana for a long moment, before there's another 'crack!' and Sara cries out, back arching in pain._

"_Very well." Gabriel sounds disappointed. Blaine's never been prouder of Santana. "That's enough," he calls out, and the executioner stops immediately, dropping to his knees. "Have her wounds cleaned; let it not be said that King Gabriel is unkind."_

_The courtiers disperse quickly, bored now that the main event's over._

"_And then what happens?"_

_Santana's tone is even._

"_Pardon?"_

"_What happens to her?" Her voice cracks on the last word, but her face remains impassive._

_Gabriel raises an eyebrow. "Oh," he drawls, "she'll be thrown out onto the streets. Let it not be said that King Gabriel allows criminals in court."_

* * *

><p>"See you at the feast, Kurt!" Finn calls enthusiastically out the door. Kurt casts a smile over his shoulder as he walks down the corridor, rubbing his forehead in a futile attempt to ward off the incipient headache.<p>

It's not that he doesn't like Finn (last year, much?) Still, there's something about his stupidity that, while endearing, does make Kurt wonder just how Rachel, with her surprisingly perceptive mind and sharp intellect manages to cope.

But then, Kurt supposes he doesn't understand how Finn can spend more than half an hour with Rachel without either magicking her mouth shut or jumping off the nearest cliff.

"Hey, Kurt!"

Startled, Kurt pivots around, before relaxing. It's Brittany, her face relaxed in a smile. But she's not alone; she's walking with a slender, dark-haired girl – Satan-something? Something to do with Satan. Kurt vaguely remembers Rachel telling him (he doesn't recall why) that Blaine and this girl (who's wearing a scarlet dress that can _not _be southern, because even southerners would freeze in clothing that thin) are close.

He's also heard that she's bitchier than Kurt, though he doesn't really believe that. Right now, anyway, she looks equal parts amused, confused, frustrated and…attracted?

Kurt empathises with all of those. Except for the latter, which he approves of nonetheless, if only because he's sick of being the only gay person around.

"Hey, Brit," he smiles. "Who's your friend?"

"Oh," Brittany says happily, "this is Santana," _there we go_, "and I'm just showing her around. She came with your dolphin!" Brittany frowns. "Kurt, he doesn't really look like you, are you _sure _he's a dolphin?"

_What is she on? _ Lopez mouths at him from next to Brittany.

He likes her already. "Don't worry, Brit," Kurt said reassuringly, reaching out to pat her on the arm. "He will. He's just got to…" Kurt hesitates.

The only reason he actually knows what Brittany's talking about is that he shared the vision she had of him…well, turning into a dolphin, because apparently he's going to do that some day in the not-near future.

(He's really hoping that a dolphin _isn't _his soul animal, though that's what the vision seemed to point at. Dolphins are cute and all, but considering Kurt lives in a semi-permanent winter in an almost-landlocked city…)

Anyway, Kurt knows he shouldn't have, but since then he's been explaining _everything _away with 'I'm a dolphin'. It's stupid and probably really quite dismissive of Brittany who does on occasion reveal that she's really not as _simple _as she seems. All the same, though, it's a foolproof solution but for the fact that Brittany keeps asking Rachel if she's a dolphin too.

(Kurt resents the idea that he and Rachel have _anything _in common. Apart from amazing vocal skills, obviously.)

Considering that, he's not surprised Brittany's as…odd…as she is. Kurt supposes that if he spent half his time seeing randoms at an indeterminate time in the future, he'd be just as bad.

"Um…"

"The ho- _dolphin_'s just…err…sick," Lopez cuts in. "He's definitely a…dolphin. Yeah. Blaine is. A…dolphin. Definitely. Deep down."

"Maybe," she adds.

The dark-skinned girl looks roughly as confused as he thinks she should, but Brittany doesn't notice.

"Okay!" Brittany's brow clears for a moment, before furrowing again. "Hey, Kurt?"

He smiles encouragingly at her. "Yes, Brit?"

"Why's your dolphin crying?"

* * *

><p>Rachel doesn't interrupt much through the story – or at least, not as much as Blaine had anticipated she would. It also helps that he starts dressing halfway through and she (thank the Goddess) walks out into the main bedchamber to allow him some modicum of decency.<p>

To be quite honest, he sort of feels sorry for Lord Finn. Their conversation had been brief, but he seemed like a nice guy.

Not that he would ever make the mistake of telling the man about this. Blaine might be taller than Rachel (that's one thing he definitely likes about her; she makes him feel tall for the first time in his life) but people as tall as Lord Finn make Blaine want to hide in a corner and cry.

"That's _horrible_," Rachel gasps as he walks out of the bathroom, smoothing down the soft fabric of his undershirt.

"…Wait, what?"

Blaine's positive he didn't say that last one out loud.

(He thinks.)

Rachel looks at him weirdly. "What do you mean, what?" she demands, and then Blaine realises that he's been so caught up in his own internal monologue that he's forgotten what they were talking about...

_Oh._

Sara.

Fuck.

"Nothing. Nothing," he repeats hastily, as she continues to stare closely at him, like he's got a bug on his face or something.

Blaine raises his hand self-consciously to his face, just in case.

"Um. Yeah. Horrible." _Awkward_.

"Anyway, so your medium's singing, right?" Blaine asks hastily.

Rachel maintains the suspicious look for a moment longer, but like Blaine predicted she can't resist the urge to talk about herself. "Yep," she replies, sitting down on the arm of the couch that rests in front of the large fireplace. "Music, actually, though singing is the easiest. And my _Talent _is healing," she adds.

"Yeah, I gathered that." She seems a bit affronted by that but Blaine smiles quickly and gestures at his chest. "Thank you," he says for the thousandth time that hour.

"Oh, don't worry about it," Rachel says dismissively. "It was an interesting test of my talents. Now I see just how much work I have to do, though; I couldn't even _start _healing the actual injuries themselves!"

Blaine's not sure if he likes the whole thing being regarded as an intellectual challenge, but he decides to let it go. "Well, none of the healers back in Altha could deal with it – not that they probably wanted to, anyway – so thank you for what you _have _done."

"Why wouldn't they want to help you?" She sounds genuinely bewildered by the idea, and Blaine is once again struck by just how different the culture seems to be down here.

Blaine sighs, too exhausted from…well, everything…to explain. "It doesn't matter."

There's a long, awkward silence. Blaine gets up off the bed where he'd sat down, walking towards the bookshelves that line the majority of one wall (how on earth did Kurt know Blaine likes books?) The writing script is strange to his eyes, though he can read it; though most countries have adopted some dialect of Althaeri as their language, the ancient alphabets have remained.

He doesn't recognise any of the titles, though he shouldn't have expected to. With a start, Blaine realises that he's searching for his favourite books on the shelves, the books that used to be stowed under his bed so Gabriel wouldn't burn them in a fit of rage.

Suddenly, Blaine has to bite down the urge rising within him to break something. Preferably something large and pretty and expensive. And glass.

Or to tear his sheets apart. Or throw daggers at the wall. Or something.

Frustration wells up inside him at the thought that he's never going to see that room again; never going to lie back in _his _bed, ball of light hanging low above his head to illuminate old pages late at night when the rest of the castle's sleeping.

And now it's not frustration anymore, but hurt and confusion (at Wes and David for suggesting this to Gabriel) and anger (at Gabriel for throwing him away like he doesn't have every right to choose for himself), and just a whole load of upset. Everything mixes and entwines, stirring and tossing and pulsing through his veins like fire-snake venom, till…

"Gah."

As far as venting noises go it's not much; but it's enough to unleash that flood of tears that have been building up since he stumbled off his horse, and Blaine sobs loudly, body convulsing as he cries into his hands till Rachel, stepping in front of him, pulls them away from his face before embracing him tightly.

He's too far gone to care that he met her about two hours ago, and instead sobs into her shoulder, tears soaking into the material of her dress.

* * *

><p>Kurt leaves Santana – he feels weird using her last name now – and Brittany alone (obviously what Santana wanted anyway) and tries not to walk too quickly to Blaine's rooms. He doesn't know just how far into the future Brit's vision was, but he's sort of worried; Rachel said she'd come find him when Blaine was ready, and it's already been two hours.<p>

The doors of Blaine's chambers are half-open, light filtering out into the dim corridor. Kurt makes to open it further, to announce his presence formally. But then he hears the loud sobs, hears words that he can't quite make out but can tell are Rachel's attempt at comforting.

Kurt wants to enter, but he hesitates; he really, really wants Blaine to like him, and he somehow doesn't think that barging in when the other boy is (from the sound of it) sobbing his eyes out will endear him much.

Plus, he wouldn't know what to say, and he's not comfortable enough with the Prince to _ask_ (they've talked, what, twice?)

Rachel says something, but even though it's clearer than before, Kurt doesn't quite hear. So he edges closer to the gap in the door, trying to peer in without being noticed.

Blaine's sitting on the edge of the bed, face red and blotchy with tears. Despite himself, Kurt can't help noticing that the Althan boy's only wearing his undershirt, and the soft silken garment does absolutely _nothing _to hide an obviously toned stomach. His slender but muscular arms, a shade lighter than Santana's olive skin, are folded in the Prince's lap, fingers interlocking and separating nervously.

Kurt gulps loudly, then curses silently, worried that one of them heard him. But neither Blaine nor Rachel, who's standing in front of the foreign Prince, look towards the door.

"Well?"

Rachel's staring at Blaine intensely, the way she looks forward when she sings, as if into the eyes of the Goddess herself.

"Yeah," Kurt hears Blaine mutter, nodding his head, the warm rich voice Kurt had heard only two hours ago now raspy and harsh, cracking audibly at the end of the word. "It's the only reason I'm here."

"Oh," Rachel says, and Kurt can hear disappointed surprise in her tone. "Really?"

_He's not talking about that, _Kurt tells himself. _That bastard Anderson promised me. He can't be talking about that, he _can't_._

Blaine laughs, the sound strained and high-pitched; strangled. "If my dad were still alive, he'd never have forced me to marry someone I barely know. I _hate _this, Rachel. I _hate _it. And I'd do _anything _to go home, but I _can't_."

_No. No, no, _no. _This can't be happening. No. _

"You mean…"

Kurt watches as Blaine bites his lip hard enough to draw blood. "I don't want to get married," Blaine whispers into the silence.

_Oh._

* * *

><p>...and that's it for now.<p>

If you can, please leave me a review (= they're much appreciated/very inspiring + give me an idea of what I'm doing right/need to improve.

I shall endeavour to update as soon as possible!

Love, Zayre


	5. Engagements

**A/N: **One more exam. Just one. More. Exam.

So I probably won't be updating till after that one more exam (though if there's enough incentive...xD)

Alright, so currently there are upwards of seventy alerts on this story. And I love that it shows you're interested, but as you guys all know, reviews are the real raison d'etre on this site (sad but true). So please do try and drop me a review...(=

Everyone should do NaNoWriMo, because it is the most painfully wonderful thing ever.

I'm so looking forward to Tuesday's (well, here, Wednesday's) episode! Though is it weird that, though I ship Klaine with the intensity of a thousand burning suns, I don't want them to have sex...? Something about...I don't know...I feel like if they wait till they're older it'll show their relationship will last longer. Though that doesn't really make sense I suppose...

Also seriously, if EVERYONE's having sex, who's gonna represent us sex-deprived virgins?

ANYWAY - enjoy the chapter!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 5 - Engagements<strong>

_Right_.

This time, Kurt doesn't wait to make it to his room. He finds an empty guest chamber instead.

_I hate this_.

Kurt remembers how he felt when he first read King Gabriel's proposition, carefully penned in a flowing script onto parchment, carried the traditional but barely-used way of a Rider.

Even though Kurt could feel the disgust oozing from every word, he didn't mind; because _here _was a chance, here was a chance for him to maybe finally share some of the happiness that he'd always dreamed about having. He's always known that he can't just marry whoever he wants; and it wasn't about class discrimination or anything, because then Kurt wouldn't have cared.

And then comes along Gabriel's bloody offer, and the images projected onto the scrying glass, and apparently Blaine is good enough to sing professionally if he wasn't stuck being a Prince, and somehow Kurt starts to believe, without even talking to the boy himself, that this might work.

_I don't want to get married_.

Kurt manages to make it back to his chambers without being seen – a feat, as the corridors are bustling with noise and activity, barely one hour out from the welcoming feast. As the door closes behind him, he leans back into it, before sinking slowly, dispiritedly, to the ground.

_What do I do? _

Part of Kurt wants to take the scrying glass, wants to contact that bastard of a King or one of those smarmy 'best friends' of Blaine's and give them a taste of his fury.

"Fucking hell," he growls, but the sound doesn't come out how he wants it to come out – it's more a sob than anything, high pitched and _disgusting_.

_No one messes with the Hummels_, Dad used to say, before the heart attack took him…

Part of Kurt also wants to go back to Blaine's chambers, to throw Rachel out and then yell at Blaine till his throat is hoarse because _how dare he act like a bloody sacrificial animal? He doesn't need to be here!_

And now he doesn't feel so much angry as ashamed because honestly, _why did I assume that he would want this?_

"What do I do, Dad?" Kurt asks aloud. "Mum? I just…"

He doesn't know what to do, and that's frightening because he's Kurt and he _always _knows what to do. Kurt's always been someone who can't be comfortable till he knows _exactly _what he's going to do.

But right now, he doesn't know; he heard the relief in Anderson's voice when Kurt cautiously agreed, and he saw that strange mix of fear and loathing every time Blaine's name was mentioned.

All the same, though, he's not betraying everything he is because some guy he barely knows might be yelled at by a vaguely homophobic sibling. Kurt can't marry someone who doesn't want to be married.

Finally, though, he does come to a decision, when everything clicks in his mind and he thinks _this will work, this is what I have to do_.

Straightening up, he clenches his jaw, and opens the door, stepping out into the corridor.

He's Kurt née of Elizabeth, Head of House Hummel, and Prince Regent of the Low Lands, after all, and he can do anything he wants now.

_No one messes with the Hummels_.

* * *

><p>"Hey, Kurt!" Rachel exclaims cheerfully as she walks into his chambers unannounced. She's in a better mood than she thought she'd be after that conversation; despite the less-than pleasant subject matter, she's pleasantly surprised to find that she actually really likes Blaine. Something about his honest sincerity and complete lack of barriers, despite what sounds like a horror of a family life, is nice for her.<p>

Plus, he was suitably appreciative of her talents; Finn's a dear, and Rachel really does love him very much, but sometimes she feels he doesn't quite understand just how…well, she hesitates to say 'lucky', but…well, how _lucky _he is.

Kurt's pulling on a shirt when she enters, and so he doesn't immediately respond. Which is fine, but after he spends at least five minutes fixing what seems like every single strand of his hair and flattening the collar of his shirt, she's sort of confused. Sure, she knows that he might find her enthusiasm and passion and endlessly interesting conversation a bit…tiring…but still…

"Rachel."

Her ears, attuned to the slightest variations in pitch and volume, pick up the hesitant rigidity in the soft syllables of her name. And straight away, Rachel's alerted to the fact that something's wrong.

"Kurt? Are you…okay?" Her step-brother-in-law turns to face her, and she might not be as good with visuals as she is with sound but _anyone _who knows Kurt would notice the tightness of his jaw, and the hard glint in his eyes that only ever appears when something is _really _wrong.

Frantically, she searches her memory, trying to figure out what might have triggered this. She hasn't seen it for a while.

Not since Burt died, anyway…

"_Kurt, please," Finn pleads, grabbing onto his stepbrother's forearms. "You know no one actually expects you to do this."_

_Kurt stares down at Finn's hands, gripping his arms. "Let go of me," he says softly but clearly. Rachel cringes._

"_Dude, are you crazy? Do you-_ argh!_" _

_Finn lets go, clutching at his groin in agony as Kurt walks around him, face impassive. Rachel, shocked and indignant, rushes forward. "Kurt, wh-"_

_The look Kurt casts her – calm and steady, unemotional determination turning his eyes a cold blue steel – silences Rachel (possibly the first time anyone's achieved that since she was seven) and he opens the door to the government chambers slowly, only the slightest tremor of his hand betraying anything other than impassiveness._

"Rachel."

She blinks, startled. "What?"

"Could you please move?"

Since when has _Kurt _ever said 'please' to _her_? "Kurt, are you…"

He's got that look in his eye again. The _I am superior to you in every single way _look, but with that extra edge of _If you touch me, don't blame me when you're freezing in the dungeons_.

She steps away from the door, and Kurt brushes past her, only to stop just as he's about to go out into the corridor.

"Rachel."

Rachel's suddenly scared, for a reason she can't quite pin down.

"Yeah?"

"When were you planning on telling me about what Prince Blaine told you?"

She freezes. "What…How…?" she tries, as her mind races for _some _sort of response to that.

"The day before the wedding? After we were married and there was nothing I could do about it?" He laughs once, more a bark than a laugh. "Maybe that's the wrong question. _Were _you planning on telling me about it?"

She can't think of anything to say. _Well, no_, is the correct response, because honestly did Kurt actually expect Blaine to be _happy _about being dragged away from the warmth (even Rachel, as much as she was determined to marry Finn, had almost thought about just going home)?

And they need this alliance, and it's all bigger than what Kurt feels and _honestly I'm doing this to make myself feel better, aren't I?_

Rachel reaches out to lay a hand on Kurt's shoulder, but he flinches away, before leaving to walk down the corridor. She flinches as the door slams, and she's left alone in his suddenly-dark chambers.

* * *

><p><em>I'm not lost, Blaine tells himself firmly. And even if he is, It's so completely <em>not his fault that every single drab, dark corridor looks about the same as the next one.<em>_

But since he's not lost, that's not an issue.

Turning a corner, Blaine thinks he recognises a chip in the wall that he'd possibly noticed just after he had left his chambers. Walking to the closest door, he hesitates before pressing an ear to the door. He can't hear anything, so he opens it slightly hopefully.

"_Fuck_!" The guy on the bed in the centre of the room sits up quickly, rolling away from the girl beneath him as she clutches the blanket to her chest.

"Sorry!" Blaine yelps, slamming the door so fast dust gets into his nose, making him sneeze.

…_Alright, I'm lost_.

He knows he shouldn't have left the room after Rachel fairly skipped out of the door, saying something about going to find Kurt. But after the emotional outburst he couldn't bear to be left alone; and so, Blaine had left the room with the vague intention of finding Santana, or one of the minor lords that had accompanied him; even Lord Finn, who had seemed friendly enough.

But he hadn't really counted on how _goddamned confusing _this castle was. And why oh why did _every stupid door have to look exactly the same_?

Just as Blaine's about to let himself indulge in what he really feels is a well-deserved wallow in the oceans of self-pity welling up within him, he hears a door slam from around a corner, about a hundred metres up ahead. About to run forwards, he stops – he really, really doesn't want to get involved in any fights, and that door slam sounded _angry._

He makes the decision to turn around and try and retrace his steps at the exact moment someone rounds the corner.

* * *

><p>"Prince Kurt!"<p>

Kurt freezes, and for a moment the layer of hard dignity he's placed over everything, laid over his skin like an almost-tangible barrier against the world, dissipates at the sound of that warm, honey-smooth voice.

_Blaine_.

He honestly debates whether or not it might be better simply to pretend he hasn't heard the other boy call out to him. But, like it or not, Blaine is a guest, and his (albeit undeclared) fiancé.

_And gorgeous and sweet and you remember his smile when he said he liked the roo_-

"Shut up," Kurt mutters to himself as he turns around, shaking his head slightly to try and clear away that memory of sparkling hazel eyes.

Which works right up until he looks towards Blaine, who, busy adjusting the thick fur cloak around his shoulders, doesn't see Kurt's expression.

Kurt swallows heavily. It's obvious that the Prince must have run to catch up with him; his breathing is very slightly heavier than it should be, and there's a dark flush beneath the olive skin of his cheeks. Kurt has to look fixedly at the wall behind Blaine's head, trying to ignore his traitorous mind that, even as he bows slightly in the ritual greeting, is conjuring up images of Blaine on Kurt's bed, breathing loud and harsh; not from exhaustion, but…

"Shut up," he mutters again, and Blaine tilts his head slightly in confusion, causing a few stray curls to fall over the eyes that Kurt's trying as hard as possible to not look at.

"Your Highness…?"

_Goddamnit why is his voice so_-

Kurt bites his lip. "Nothing," he smiles rigidly, utilising every bit of self-restraint to stop from hitting himself over the head with his own arm in a probably futile effort to kill off the part of his mind whispering to him about Blaine's high cheekbones and muscled arms. "Can I help you?"

Despite his promise to himself, Kurt can't help but almost-flinch as Blaine starts, brightness of his eyes dimming at the barely-veiled hostility in Kurt's tone.

"Sorry, I…um, I – that is," Blaine stammers. "Um, I was just – if it's not too much trouble, of course, um…"

"What is it?" Kurt snaps.

Blaine actually shrinks away at that and Kurt allows himself to feel a moment of sadistic pleasure, determinedly quashing the pity and regret rising within him as uncertainty and hurt fill Blaine's eyes.

"…I…I'm lost," Blaine admits softly. "I just…I don't know the way back to my rooms." The northerner's voice is almost a whisper; but not the low, husky whisper of their previous conversation. This time, Blaine's voice is dull, a monotone devoid of the rich warmth Kurt was starting to become accustomed to. He sounds like a child, a child who can't understand why he's being scolded.

Kurt has to close his eyes for a moment, because the urge to either jump off the nearest battement or to wrap his arms around Blaine and sob an apology into the other boy's shoulder is overpowering.

(Also somewhat bipolar, and is starting to make Kurt, even in his own head, seem a lot more like Rachel than is ever desirable.)

_It's not his fault_, Kurt reminds himself. _It's like how it's not Finn's fault he doesn't go for men, or that he's cursed with an attraction to Rachel_.

So he doesn't turn and run away in search of a good jumping spot, and he doesn't succumb to the somewhat irrational and possibly creepy desire to What he does do is say "of course," his voice somewhat gentler than before, and take Blaine's hand tentatively in his own.

"This way."

Kurt (when did he start thinking about the other Prince as 'Kurt'?) releases Blaine's hand fairly quickly, and Blaine knows that it was probably little more than a tokenistic gesture of chivalry. Regardless, the warmth of the boy's soft, smooth skin lingers on Blaine's own hand, rough and callused in comparison. The sensation somewhat oozes the hurt Blaine felt at Kurt's standoffishness, but doesn't erase it.

The worst part is that Blaine doesn't know what he's done wrong; did he break some etiquette law in shouting out to Kurt? Is running in the hallways not allowed?

Also, Blaine might not _want _to get married but Kurt's not only attractive (read: _gorgeous_) and a brilliant interior designer, but Blaine could feel the wards and magics in his chambers; Kurt might not have actually implemented the magic itself but he would have planned _all _of it. Blaine's good at practical magic, but that sort of theoretical knowledge he reserves for music.

And after that first encounter, Blaine had sort of thought that maybe Kurt had…

_No_, Blaine tells himself sternly. _He obviously doesn't; maybe he was just like that because Rachel was there_.

"Rachel will probably be here soon."

That's Kurt's voice, soaring and angelic and at least somewhat less restrained than when he turned to address Blaine earlier, and Blaine realises that they're standing before a door that he's going to assume is his. "She'll tell you what you need to do; the protocols, the order of entrance, and so on."

Blaine nods, not sure of what to say; by the end of that, Kurt's voice has hardened and stilled again, the multilayered texture flattening once more.

"Thank you, your Highness," Blaine says politely, bowing his head before turning to open the door.

"Your High- _Blaine_."

Kurt's biting his lip as Blaine looks back at him. "You…" the other boy mutters, "look…it's only fair that if I'm permitted to use your name, you should be afforded the same. For etiquette's sake," Kurt adds hurriedly.

Blaine blinks. "Alright. Thank you…_Kurt_."

He watches Kurt move away and down the corridor, eyes following the movement of long slender legs hugged tightly by a dark silky material, and smiles softly before he opens the door, stepping inside.

Blaine closes the door and leans back against it for a moment, looking around at the roaring fireplace, the pale gold-sheeted bed, feeling the thick fur of the carpet against his feet.

He smiles again.

_Maybe this won't be so bad after all_…

* * *

><p>Much to Santana's dismay, no amount of insults or threatened violence allows her to enter the hall with or be seated near Brittany. Instead, she's set to be announced with that girl who's vying with Blaine for title of 'hobbit'. Admittedly, Rachel or Rakelle or whatever the hobbit's name is dresses up passably; she's wearing a dark blue gown that makes her look slightly less like an overgrown dwarf than before, and it doesn't look too bad against Santana's gorgeous red satin. But <em>fucking Goddess <em>the girl _won't shut up_.

"Remind me why I'm with you?" she asks as they stand outside the door, fairly annoyed.

The hobbit smiles so widely Santana would, if she actually cared, be worried that she might break her jaw. "Oh, Kurt and I are best friends, and you're Blaine's…" Hobbit falters. "Um…are you guys friends?"

Santana's saved from having to contemplate that rather frightening idea as the heavy wooden doors are opened.

"Lady Rachel née of Joel Berry of the Western Plains, beloved wife of Lord Finn and dearest friend of Prince Kurt!"

_Dearest friend? That's actually the wankiest title _ever.

"Mistress Santana Lopez, née of Alessandra of Karnath, third of the Sun Kingdoms; and dearest friend of Prince Blaine!"

She practically stalks out into the court room and, ignoring the whispers and murmurs as the full meaning of her name sinks in, collapses with a deliberate gracelessness into the chair next to the hobbit.

"Now what?" she growls.

The hobbit grins again, adjusting the fur collar of her cloak. "Now comes the fun part!" she exclaims. Santana, who doesn't understand how anyone in any sort of frame of mind remotely resembling 'right' could find anything like this _fun_, refrains with difficulty from reaching over to strangle the girl.

"The true son and heir of the late King of the Low Lands; Head of House Hummel, Kurt, Prince Regent and heir apparent of the Low Lands!"

As soon as _Hummel _(Santana hasn't thought of a good enough proper name for the guy, so Hummel will have to do) steps out, Santana tenses. Remarkably enough, the hobbit does the same, and Santana realises that not a few others are doing the same. Hummel's jaw is rigid and his eyes are hard with something Santana, being who she is, is fairly familiar with – stubborn, _bitchy _determination.

"What's wrong with the girl?" she asks brusquely of the hobbit. The hobbit bites her lip, and Santana's pleasantly surprised to realise that the girl sitting next to her might have more settings on her personality than 'sleeping' and 'annoying'.

"What?" the hobbit asks, obviously not really paying attention. "Oh, you mean Kurt. Um…I don't…"

The door opens again and Santana sees the hobbit perceptibly tense.

"Second son of the late King James of the Sun Kingdoms. Beloved brother to Gabriel, Head of House Anderson, Reignant of Altha and Over-King of the Confederation of the Sun Kingdoms; Prince Blaine of House Anderson, and…"

The old man who's been spewing all this stupid title stuff that makes Santana want to kill something, stops talking suddenly as his eyes widen. Santana frowns, turning her gaze towards Blaine. Obviously, whatever's going on isn't his fault; he's got the caught-in-firelight look in his eyes, a sort of dazed confusion.

It's when she looks from the hobbit, whose eyes are wide and panicked, to Hummel, whose jaw actually might shatter if it becomes more rigid, that Santana starts to realise something is not right.

"Oi, hobbit, what's happening?"

The hobbit swallows loudly. "He…but he can't. Kurt wouldn't. No. No. He's not."

_That was helpful_. "He can't _what_, you idiot?"

"Your Highness." The old man's started speaking again, voice quavering and weak as he leans on an ostentatious gold sceptre, turning to face Hummel. "Your Highness…" The old man's voice breaks and he clears his throat. "Is this truly your will?"

Hummel simply stares down at him, and Santana's reluctantly admiring of his poker face.

The old man's lip actually _trembles_, before he nods. "Very well. This is most irregular," he adds in a mutter, though it's drowned out by the whispers that are sweeping the room. Santana looks back at Blaine, who actually looks like he's going to cry.

_What the fuck is going on?_

"May I present," the voice is louder again, cutting through the noises of gossip and confusion, "Prince Blaine of House Anderson, and…" he hesitates, "_Asmoa Maiteak _of Prince Kurt."

Santana knows _nothing _about the language down here, mostly because she'd intended to high-tail it out of here straight after the wedding.

There's only one term Blaine taught her: _Etorkizuneko Senarra_. 'Fiancé', to normal people who speak normal languages.

Next to Santana, the hobbit breathes a really overly-melodramatic sigh of relief and slumps back into her seat. But Santana, feeling something uncomfortably close to what might be fear squeeze her heart, does not share the sentiment.

She might not be a language expert, but she's fairly sure that _Asmoa Maiteak_ might as well have meant _execution warrant_.

Obviously Blaine agrees; because Blaine, accompanied by a chorus of whispers and shocked murmurs, inhales loudly, sound echoing in the court. And then, terror written all over his features, he turns and runs from the court.

And all Santana can think is _fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, _fuck_. _

_This is not good._

* * *

><p><strong>Next time:<strong>

_In a flash, Blaine's got Kurt pressed up against the wall, one hand effortlessly pinning down both of Kurt's slender wrists above the boy's head._

_"_Why_?" Blaine growls straight into Kurt's ear._

...and yes.

This is the second-last episode of the introductory arc. After that, we'll really actually get into plot, Klaine, intrigue, and Klaine.

As stated before, reviews are love and I totes thrive on love. However, I appreciate every review I get - thank you to everyone who reviewed last chapter, you guys are uber-encouraging!

Till next time!

Love, Zayre


	6. Language

**A/N: **more than 100 alerts. Wow. Thank you to everyone who reviewed! I tried to reply to all of you but some pretty un-fun stuff happened in my life and so I think I missed one or two. I'm really sorry and next time I promise to get back to all of you!

So...brief rant about my life. Bad news first: one of my older sister's best friends, and a guy I know pretty darn well has been diagnosed with advanced lung cell cancer. He's not expected to live past March. It's absolutely devastating - he's only 28 and a young human rights lawyer, and an absolutely amazing guy. And I know that other people have had this happen to them (obviously) but...yeah. It's not great.

Second: good news - I've finally finished exams! I've finished my HSC - no idea how it works in the States but in France it's the equivalent of the BAC...? And...A levels...? in Britain? Yeah, I'm good at this. The exam was today and was absolutely terrible, but whatever. Now I can get onto finishing/starting stuff I've wanted to do - 4 months to write a terrible music. Fun!

Third: THE FIRST TIME. Hmmm. I do think they handled the sex well BUT I disagree with the implication that you should have sex if you love someone. No virgin representation which is a bit depression-making. And Artie...gah. But the Klaine moments were gorgeous.

**And now story-related stuff**:

So this is sort of the end of the introduction/exposition of the story. It's been a lot longer than I thought, but I'm sort of glad. After this, writing will probably get a lot harder so I'm not sure how frequently I'll update (hopefully every few days because HSC is over and I have nothing to do with my life.)

Blaine's sort of bipolar in this. The reason will become more and more apparent as the story continues.

Anyway, I'm going to shut up now. Once again, please review; I actually giggle like a Beiber-obsessed 12 year old fangirl when I read reviews; even the critical ones because honestly, it shows you're paying attention. Thanks!

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><p><strong>Chapter 6 - Language<strong>

Blaine doesn't know where he's running, but he keeps going till the heavy fabric weighing down on his shoulders becomes too much and he stops, breathing harshly till his military training kicks in. He closes his eyes, breath slowing and calming, and thinks of emptiness –thinks of the emotions and turbulent fear-anger-_fear _draining out like water through a sieve, draining and draining till…

"Blaine! _Blaine!_"

He hears the footsteps behind him, feels the surge of rage pulse through his veins, and reacts instantly.

In a flash, Blaine's got Kurt pressed up against the wall, one hand effortlessly pinning down both of Kurt's slender wrists above the boy's head.

"Why?" Blaine growls straight into Kurt's ear. Dimly, he registers the fact that, though the other Prince is taller than Blaine, his slimness more than makes up for it, as Blaine presses his body forwards, trapping Kurt easily beneath him. "Why?" he snarls, and Kurt gasps but doesn't reply.

"_Why_?" Blaine repeats; softer, this time, a whisper that might be called gentle; but Blaine knows that Kurt can see his eyes, no doubt darkened in anger. He can feel the slender boy tremble, and as he tightens his hold around the soft wrists, mercilessly crushing bones together, Blaine uses his other hand to press Kurt's shoulder into the wall behind them, stilling his movements.

Kurt shivers, gazing at Blaine with his large blue-green eyes widened, fair cheeks flushing with confusion and fear and…

The boy turns his head, breaking the lock between his eyes and Blaine's before Blaine can even start to think about what that other_ thing _in Kurt's eyes might have been. "Let go of me," Kurt says evenly, but Blaine can hear the tremor in Kurt's voice and revels in it.

"You don't understand," Blaine says calmly, coldly. There's still the fear running through his veins, but he refuses to let it overwhelm him, refuses to follow through with what he'd wanted to do when he'd run from that court, away from staring eyes and whispering voices. _You don't have anywhere to go_, he reminds himself. _This is it. You just need to know why._

"Don't understand what, Blaine?" The calm, soothing tone draws Blaine from his thoughts and he realises with a start that it's him who's trembling now; and not just trembling, but shaking, and as he looks up he sees that Kurt's hands are going white.

"Shit," he swears, loosening his grip enough that, if Kurt tried, he'd easily be able to pull his wrists away.

But Kurt doesn't. Instead, his eyes meet Blaine's again, and though there's still fear there, the curiosity is far more powerful.

"Blaine, what's wrong?"

_What's wrong? _With an effort, Blaine stops the fingers of his right hand from tightening once more around the other boy's wrists. "You don't understand," Blaine repeats. Perhaps he's imagining it but his voice feels higher now – higher and more like it used to sound before he had his thirteenth name day and as if by magic his voice had deepened, but he didn't grow so instead of Gabriel telling him he was going to end up a girl Gabriel was telling him he'd end up a dwarf-

"Gabriel."

Kurt blinks. "Pardon?"

Blaine swallows heavily. "Gabriel," he says wearily. How have his hands ended up on either side of Kurt's body, close enough that the innermost part of his wrist is brushing the fur of Kurt's ceremonial cloak? "He…" Blaine bites his lip. "I can't go back. But I have to. But I can't. I can't. _Why did you do that_?"

And now his forehead is pressed against Kurt's shoulder and maybe his words are muffled by the fur and _I barely know him so why am I doing this? Where the fuck is Santana? _

"…Blaine. Blaine. Listen, Blaine."

With an effort, Blaine lifts his head up. Kurt's holding onto Blaine's arms as if to support Blaine (which makes no sense but whatever.) "What?" he asks blearily, eyes foggy with a sudden exhaustion threatening to overwhelm him.

"You…" Kurt hesitates. "Blaine, do you _know _what _Asmoa Maiteak _means?"

Blaine fumbles for words. "Um," he manages, suddenly grateful Kurt's holding onto him because if he wasn't, Blaine's fairly sure he'd be keeling forwards and Kurt's got really nice cheekbones.

"You have nice cheekbones," Blaine announces.

"Um, thank you?" Kurt shakes his head. "Blaine, concentrate. _Asmoa Maiteak. _Do you-"

"No," Blaine sighs, figuring that if he doesn't answer the question Kurt's not going to let him sleep.

"Blaine-"

"You can't send me back," he insists. "I'm not going. You can't do this, you ca-"

"Blaine!"

_Ouch_. Not for the first time, Blaine marvels at the other boy's vocal range.

"Blaine," Kurt continues more softly, "I'm not sending you back."

Blaine steps back, hands pushing away from the wall, and he almost stumbles but five years of Althan military training mean that he's almost better at sleeping on his feet than in a bed.

"Oh," he says, because really he should say something. "That's very nice of you."

And, with a certain amount of relief, Blaine faints.

* * *

><p>"Will he be alright?" Kurt asks with a certain amount of anxiousness as Rachel stops her humming (some terrible song from thirty years ago with a title Kurt doesn't <em>want <em>to remember.) He leans forward slightly in the chair placed next to Blaine's bed, barely resisting the temptation to reach out and run his fingers over the boy's skin, slightly paler than it should be.

Rachel rolls her eyes. "Of course," she sighs. "He's not made of sugar icing."

"Sugar icing?" Kurt takes a moment to contemplate that analogy, decides that it's only further confirmation of just why conversation with Rachel is about as confusing as conversation with Brittany, and a lot less fun, before shaking his head.

"What I don't understand is _why _he was so…you know."

Rachel frowns. "Isn't it obvious? They don't speak Saritan up north and _Asmoa Maiteak_…" The corner of Rachel's mouth twitches in a half smile. "I'm impressed, actually," she confesses reluctantly, as though it pains her to give him a compliment. It probably does. "You have slightly more skill with this stuff than I thought."

_Translation: I'd never have thought of that_.

"But…so?"

_I don't want to get married._

"So what?"

"I thought he…" Kurt grits his teeth and forces himself to finish the sentence, "…doesn't want to get married."

She blinks. "Oh. That."

Kurt's up to number three in the list of _how to kill your step-brother's wife and make it seem like an accident _when Rachel rises to her feet, air palpably _lightening _as she draws her magic back within her. "You'll…you'll have to ask him that," Rachel says.

"What do you mean?"

"How much did you hear?"

Kurt shrugs. "'It's the only reason I'm here'…that was the first thing, I decided my presence probably wasn't really desired after the…"

_I don't want to get married._

_Get over it_, he tells himself, but rather predictably it doesn't help.

"Ah." Rachel's frowning again – but this time it's not the _Rachel _frown, it's not the sort of expression that crosses her face when Kurt out-sings her in their bi-monthly singing duel. It's the _Lady Rachel, _Atzerri (Spymaster, though no one's every crude enough to say it) _of the Low Lands _frown. "You…you should have stayed. But…I can't tell you."

As Kurt opens his mouth – to ask her? _Demand_ that she tell him? – Blaine groans, long lashes fluttering slightly as he begins to stir.

"I'd better go," Rachel says quickly, and the door's closed behind her before Kurt can get a word in.

* * *

><p>Drifting back into consciousness, Blaine could almost swear it's Rachel that he hears – but when he opens his eyes, it's just him and Kurt.<p>

"Santana?" he mutters groggily.

"You've been out for a few hours. Most of the castle's gone to sleep, and for some reason Santana – Mistress Lopez – has ended up in Brittany's room. Brittany tells me they're playing cards, but I swear that's an extended metaphor for sex for people who don't take time to think about euphemisms."

_Kurt._

Blaine freezes, muscles tensing as memories of whatever happened before he – fainted? – return to him.

"Relax," a voice whispers, calm and soothing as he tries to sit up, hands pushing gently at his shoulders till Blaine gives in and sinks back into the comfort of what is _really _a very comfortable bed.

"Sorry," he mumbles over and over again, "sorry," because _Gods _he actually attacked Kurt and the other boy might be his age but attacking foreign leaders is really not a good thing and _shit are those bruises around his wrist_?

"Blaine," Kurt says firmly, "it's fine. I'm the one who should be apologising; I didn't realise you wouldn't understand."

"Understand what?" And then he remembers, and another wave of panic arises before _I'm not sending you back _flashes in his memory. Which is good, but now he feels even more like a sack of potatoes, albeit one that spent half an hour thinking it was rotten before being told that _no, it's okay, I'm not throwing you in the shopkeeper's face and demanding back my three silver coins_.

"_Asmoa Maiteak_," he murmurs under his breath. "I don't know what they mean."

"Yeah, um," and for the first time this conversation, Kurt looks somewhat discomfited. "They're Saritan. You know, the-"

"The Goddess tongue," Blaine starts to sit up, but more slowly this time, and though Kurt throws him a worried glance, he doesn't stop him.

"Yeah." Kurt takes a deep breath. "."

"…Pardon?"

"I…I heard your conversation with Rachel." Blaine's eyes widen. "No!" Kurt exclaims. "Not the whole thing! Just the…"

The conversation was only earlier in the day (how much earlier, Blaine isn't sure because he doesn't really know how long he was out for) but he still has to think for a moment.

"Ah." He swallows heavily. "I don't want to get married."

Kurt flinches, and Blaine feels a stab of guilt but _honestly _did he expect Blaine to be happy about this?

"Yeah, that." Kurt's voice is just a little bit colder and stilted at that, but then he shakes his head as if in self-admonishment and when he starts to speak again the tone is as warm and melodious as before. "I...I'm sorry. I shouldn't really have expected anything else, but…"

He shakes his head again.

"It doesn't matter."

Blaine sort of wants to know what Kurt was about to say but doesn't ask. "Then what does?"

"_Asmoa Maiteak_." Blaine's eyes flutter slightly at that, at the soft, sibilant and far too _interesting _way Kurt says those words. "It..."Intended beloved". That's what it means. It's…it's not a contract. It's not a demand. It's a…it's a promise." He pauses.

"A promise?" Blaine prompts.

"And it's magically binding, at least till either of us releases the other. It's old, which is why you probably haven't heard of it, and since it's not legally recognised no one really uses it anymore," Kurt continues, before stopping again.

_Magically binding_. That sounds too much like blood magic to Blaine, till he realises that blood magic isn't voluntary and is illegal down here anyway.

"What sort of promise?" he asks warily, but Kurt ignores him.

"It also means your brother can't force you to go home just because we're not engaged," the other boy babbles on, slender fingers clasping and unclasping as he fidgets nervously. "Not that he has any right to tell you what to do now that you're here but just in case, and-"

"What sort of promise, Kurt?" Blaine asks levelly.

Those fingers freeze, before dropping to rest in Kurt's lap, tense but still.

"That we won't marry till you want it. Till I want it. That we won't take the engagement vows till I fulfil the promise. Because I want to…"

"Kurt?"

Kurt takes a deep breath.

* * *

><p>"I want to make you fall in love with me."<p>

"_Shit_."

The vision shatters, blows away on the light wind coming from open windows, the breeze doing nothing to slow David's heavy sweating as he wobbles on his feet, only saved from falling by Wes's strong arms wrapping securely around his waist.

"Sorry," David gasps, as Wes guides him towards a seat. "I just couldn't – couldn't hold it – I'm sorry-"

"Shut up," Wes says roughly, handing him a goblet of water. "It's fine, David. I know how hard it is and you _know _I'd do it if I could, but-"

"Shut up," David returns in a hoarse whisper before taking a sip of the water, feeling the cool liquid trickle down his throat to soothe (somewhat) the raging fire of over-use. He'll be knackered tomorrow, he knows.

But Blaine's their friend.

"So now what?" he murmurs when he finally judges himself able to speak – the words still come out slightly harshly, but at least now he can speak properly.

Wes shrugs, dropping into the chair opposite David's. "Gods be damned if I know," he admits with a strong undertone of frustration. "And even if we did…what are we going to do about it? We're _stuck _here, playing the good King's faithful _advisors_…"

David bites his lip. "Wes, don't…" he begins uncertainly. Wes rolls his eyes.

"Do you know how many times I've warded this room, David? Do you really think I'd put our – _your _– lives at risk?"

_I'm not Santana_, he doesn't say. _And even if I was, I'd have learned after the first time_.

"I know," David sighs, shaking his head. "But now that Blaine's gone…"

Neither of them need to say it. Now that Blaine's gone, there's no one protecting them, no one stopping Gabriel from dragging them to the scaffold to be hanged till half-dead before being torn apart by wild dogs if they're found together.

_Gabriel_. "What the fuck is he doing?" Wes growls.

David sighs again. "Even if we knew, there's nothing we can could do about it."

"Yeah," Wes agrees, reaching out to take the goblet from the table, gulping down a mouthful of water. "I suppose it's all up to…"

* * *

><p>…Santana wakes with a start as a jolt of pain runs through her body, gathering in her abdomen till she's curled over in a ball, rocking backwards and forwards on the soft bed.<p>

_I want to make you fall in love with me._

The pain dissipates slowly, though some of it lingers, leaving her muscles sore and aching and knotting in her stomach.

"I want to make you fall in love with me," she echoes aloud, and beside her there's movement.

"'Tana?" Brittany mumbles blearily, and Santana smiles wistfully – a smile that she'd sooner die before revealing to anyone other than the girl reaching out a hand to clasp her own.

"It's nothing," Santana murmurs softly, wrapping her arms around the blonde's slender frame as she lies back down.

But the confusing whirl of pain and terror remains in her stomach, that feeling of _wrongness _that echoes and resonates in her mind.

And when she finally falls asleep, hours later, it's to the echoes of _fall in love…make you…I…me…love…me…you…love…me._

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><p>Basque is the best language ever (for future reference it's where I'm getting a lot of my terms from.)<p>

__Reviews are love, so thank you so much to everyone who does make the effort! It's really appreciated.


	7. Confusions

**A/N: **Eurgh, don't know what to make of this chapter. It's sort of...erratic. Everything's been not-good lately - finally saw the guy I mentioned in my last AN and he does NOT look well. Also, I hate men (in my life). They're all stupid and arrogant and HONESTLY, the next person to imply any sort of intellectual inferiority on my part is looking at being strangled. With a hairbrush. It's probably not possible, but I don't care.

...sorry.

Just to address some concerns raised in reviews for last chapter (which I replied to if you logged in, but if you didn't then I'm addressing them now):

1. Sorry, I didn't make how David/Wes saw what was going on quite clear - David's Talent is Scrying, which is basically...well, if you look at time as a river, Brittany can see linearly - what's in front of her, while David can see laterally - what's around him in the same instant.

2. Confused as to how Santana heard Kurt's vow and why it affected her? Good. You aren't meant to know yet xD

3. Quite a few people expressed confusion as to why the two guys and Santana saw the _Asmoa Maiteak_ as negative. I'm sorry, but you aren't going to find that out straight away. You are going to be confused because this story is in effect an onion, and I'm peeling it veeeery slowly, layer by layer. I debated changing things to make it more understandable but it's how I write. I'll try be more explicit because obviously you're meant to understand what's happening even if you don't understand why (and tell me if you don't!)

4. This chapter will answer some questions/clarify stuff. So pay attention!

Thanks so much to those who reviewed, you can't imagine how excited I am when I see the emails! So yes, esp. if you've alerted this please do make the effort to review, it's so encouraging!

Also, if you don't have an account but you have questions in your review that you want addressed, leave me an email address or something so I can get back to you - some people asked some really good questions that I wanted to reply to!

Anyway, I hope you enjoy!

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><p><strong>Chapter 7 - Confusions<strong>

Since it's already a few hours past midnight when Blaine and Kurt finish talking (not that Blaine can tell, because the windows of this room are magicked to show different scenery and anyway, this isn't Altha where everyone's forced awake by the sun before six o'clock), they decide to separate so they can have a shower and actually get out of the heavy formal garb that was required for the feast.

Blaine's looking at the windows, trying to unpick the layers of magic (a complex mesh of the five elements that is very obviously superior to anything Blaine could come up with) and has just realized that if he opens the windows then the wards blow soft, warm air into his face that smells like Santana's orange tree, when Kurt returns.

And he's not alone; as Kurt passes Blaine to enter a side-door, touching his arm briefly in an obvious 'follow me' gesture, Blaine's astonished to find servants placing platters upon platters of food on a long table in what appears to be an ensuite dining room.

"What…Kurt…you shouldn't have," Blaine protests. Right on cue, his stomach growls loudly and Kurt laughs, bell-like sound making a shiver run down Blaine's spine.

"I figured that since you didn't eat any dinner, you'd be fairly hungry," Kurt explains, sitting down and handing a plate to Blaine as Blaine seats himself opposite Kurt. "I don't normally eat most of this stuff, but…" Kurt wrinkles his nose in slight disgust before sighing. "Whatever. Bacon?"

They speak leisurely as they eat, keeping the conversation light; and Kurt is at once surprised, gratified and more than a little attracted by the fact that, not only does Blaine _adore _music, he's also astonishingly intelligent. _Almost _as much as Kurt.

Soon enough, breakfast is over; but, reluctant to halt the conversation, Kurt sips slowly from a steaming mug of coffee (because despite the shot of raw adrenaline magic he'd taken so he'd not have to sleep, he's not sure he'd be able to stay on his feet without coffee) as Blaine, somewhat bizarrely, carves away at an apple with a breadknife.

"Rachel's an _Eslarie_!"

Kurt can feel his eyes wanting to roll upwards in amused annoyance but restrains himself. "I know ," he says patiently. "I've known her for years." He frowns. 'Come to think of it, I was the first person she told."

As annoying as Rachel is, Kurt can't help but look back on that memory in fondness. He'd been jealous and angry when he'd found out (because _he _obviously had a far superior voice, so why wasn't it him?) And so in equal parts desperation to prove her wrong and curiosity, he ordered her to sing the whole of _West Side Story _with her magic released, just to see what it would do.

The fact that there was an important alliance negotiation going on hadn't really mattered to a pair of nine year old kids, and so Kurt hadn't been able to stop laughing as his father attempted to scold them for turning the Duchess of Carmel's skin a sunflower yellow.

He tells that story to Blaine (leaving out the part where a tendril of Rachel's magic had dug into Kurt's scalp and convinced his hair that it really needed to reach down to the floor.) Blaine actually goes into hysterics, and Kurt marvels at how warm and friendly the boy really is, beneath his crazy fighting skills and the cold aggressiveness that Kurt had faced barely ten hours ago.

"I love that musical!" Blaine exclaims, face lighting up before he winces as the breadknife slips and almost goes straight into his palm (Kurt stifles a giggle at the affront painted on the other boy's expression. "Dad never really liked music, but we always went to see it once a year till…"

One thing Kurt's learnt from this conversation is that Blaine wears _everything _on his face; and so he sees the wistful happiness fade into remembrance, then sadness, then…bitterness?

"And now?" Kurt asks softly, aware they're onto touchy territory.

_Gabriel_.

It's the one thing Blaine won't talk about, and Kurt watches the struggle on his face. "I…Well, I'm here now."

And there's the slightest muted undercurrent of anger in that bitterness that makes Kurt bite his lip.

"Blaine," he says, "why did you come here if you don't want to…get married?"

Blaine laughs shortly. "I have no will but the will of the King," Blaine says in a sing-song voice, almost as if he's quoting from something.

Kurt frowns. "What-"

"The Altha Accords. After the Great Wars of the north," Blaine clarifies. "Don't get me wrong, Kurt – I actually really like you. You're funny, you're smart, you're be-" he swallows, "_definitely _not unattractive," Kurt actually feels the blood rush to the cheeks as his traitorous mind finishes Blaine's sentence for him, "but…you have to understand. Altha's…" he pauses for a moment, obviously trying to find the right words… "Altha's home," Blaine finishes somewhat lamely.

_I don't understand_. "I don't understand," Kurt says slowly, "then why are you here?" Even though Kurt knows Blaine won't – _can't _– leave, he still doesn't understand why, which is probably the reason that just saying those words stings. "Why – you were so _angry_, but…I don't understand…" He cuts himself off, more than a little angry at his inability to just say what he wants to say.

Thankfully, the other boy doesn't seem to sense Kurt's awkwardness, obviously lost in his own thoughts; he drops the knife on the plate, hand supporting his chin as he leans forward (obviously unaware of the apple juice coating his fingers). Finally, Blaine opens his mouth but closes it again almost straight away. "I can't tell you," he says softly.

"Blaine, please," Kurt pleads, "I just want to unders-"

"No," Blaine interrupts, and there's a bit of frustration in his voice now. "You don't understand. I _can't _tell you. Literally can't. Like, words choke in my mouth can't."

Kurt's eyes narrow as his mind races, shifting through hearsays and rumours and _I don't know if it's true, but_ till he finally gets it. "You mean, Altha Accords blood magic can't?"

That seems the only reason, which is why he's confused when Blaine shakes his head again.

"I can't say," Blaine admits. "If you really want to know – and I think you might prefer not to – then talk to Rachel.

"This is the part of the conversation I missed, isn't it?" Kurt guessed, and Blaine nodded. "Why can you tell her and not me?" And _Goddess this is stupid because Rachel's married and I'm fairly sure Blaine's gay, even if he's managed to pick out the worst possible combination of clothing from that wardrobe I got him _he's surprised to feel the slightest hint of jealousy burning within him.

Blaine shakes his head again. "It's _really _complicated. Just…talk to Rachel."

Kurt frowns but sees the anxiousness in the other boy's too-expressive eyes and forces a smile onto his face. "I will."

_I think_.

* * *

><p><em><strong>One week later<strong>_

"Time to wake _uuuup!_" Rachel sings as she pushes the doors to her step-brother's chambers open – to see him sitting before the fireplace, heavy, obviously old book in hand.

"Oh, hey Rachel," Kurt smiles (_smiles! At _her_!_) as he turns to glance at her before looking back down at the book. "Do you need anything?"

She gapes for a moment, standing in the doorway with her mind blank, till he finally looks at her again, rolling his eyes. "Oh, stop that," he sighs. "Come and sit down and talk to me about foreign policy."

"This isn't right," she protests, moving to the table where she sits, swinging her legs backwards and forwards as she glares at him. This isn't _fair_, not at all, it's so completely not fair that it's only been a week since he met Blaine and he's actually happy enough to _smile _at her!

"You've ruined our ritual!"

"Rachel, waking me up with an unfortunately in-tune rendition of _I Feel Pretty _at six thirty on a Sunday morning, before speaking war and other countries I honestly couldn't care less about – at least not till after I've drunk a river's worth of coffee – and spy games or _whatever _you do till I can't think straight is _not _what any _sane _person would call a ritual."

Rachel shrugs, not bothering to mention that if she's not sane then Kurt's _crazy_'s best friend. "What're you reading?"

Kurt blinks. "Oh, this?" He seems about to pick up the book and wave it around before realising that he'd probably break his wrist. "It's just a book on blood magic. The Altha Accords – which you haven't told me about, why haven't you told me about them? They sound important – and etcetera."

"Interesting, but _why_?" Rachel reaches forward to take the book from his lap, gasps and almost drops it as she realises just how heavy it is and only saves the marble floor from a probably-permanent crack with the push upwards of Air that propels it into her lap.

"Oh, just something Blaine said a while ago," Kurt replies, but the trying-to-be-casual tone alerts her and she looks up sharply.

"What do you mean?"

Kurt hesitates. "It's just…" He takes a deep breath. "He wouldn't tell me why he came here if he didn't want to be married in the first place," he says quickly, a slight flush arising in his porcelain cheeks. Rachel relaxes, looking back down at the book as she flicks through it, wrinkling her nose at the smell of _old book _emanating from the pages.

"Oh, that," she says dismissively, and it's Kurt's turn to look at her, blue-green eyes suddenly intense and piercing as Rachel meets his gaze.

"What do-"

He's interrupted by a knock at the door.

"Come in!" Rachel calls out cheerfully, pointedly ignoring Kurt's muttered _'yes, because this is _your _room, Prince Rachel_'. Mike enters, bowing politely even as Kurt, pained expression on his face, tells their childhood friend to stop.

Normally Mike would take that as permission to forget the formalities, but when he turns to Rachel and speaks – "a message for you, Lady Rachel" – she knows it's serious enough.

"_Sans'aera_," she murmurs formally in response, taking the rolled-up scroll from him. As she opens it and begins to read, Mike leaves quietly.

"Interesting," Rachel murmurs when she's done, all thoughts of fun and teasing and frivolity vanished.

"What did it say?" With a start, she realises Kurt's still in the room; he's risen slightly from his seat, a semi-worried expression on his face.

She shrugs slightly. "It's from Jesse of Carmel," Rachel begins, and Kurt sighs melodramatically at the mention of the flamboyant ruler of the Head of House Carmel and ruler of the small but ridiculously wealthy independent province.

"Not your lover _again_," Kurt groans, and Rachel leans forwards to slap his arm lightly.

"You know that's not true, Kurt…." She trails off into silence. "Um, you haven't, you know, said anything to Finn, right…?"

Kurt just smiles, which she _hopes _is a good thing. "Anyway, it's a request for an alliance. Not to join the Low Lands, but an independent alliance."

"That's odd," Kurt frowns. "He's never been interested before-"

"Quiet! I'm not finished," Rachel huffs. "Not a normal alliance, a protective one, and one that he'd be willing to swear on with his magic."

Her step-brother's eyes widen slightly in surprise before narrowing speculatively. "That is…unexpected. Protection from who?"

Rachel frowns. "From the Confederation – the Sun Kingdoms. And most specifically, from Gabriel."

This time it's Kurt's brow that wrinkles, flawless skin creasing slightly. "But we're allied to Gabriel…"

"We're not," Rachel disagrees, shaking her head vehemently. "Not till you and Blaine marry, at least, and no offence, Kurt, but that boy doesn't seem ready to look after that orange sapling he brought with him, let alone get married. We could use what Jesse's offering us, you know."

She watches Kurt think, and knows she's won when he slumps back into the couch. "What's he offering?" Kurt asks wearily, raising a hand to his forehead as if to wipe off nonexistent sweat.

"Full access to Carmel's resources so long as they're paid for in good coin – hard cash," she says promptly and quickly, desperate to convince him in case he changes his mind. "His military for our use unless he's under direct attack in which case we're expected to return the favour."

"They're good terms," Kurt muses. "But _why_?"

Rachel shrugs again, lightly. "Well, his talent is Shielding," she says disinterestedly, "so I can imagine why he might be worried that Gabriel will feel the need to use force rather than anything else against him. Plus they're in the buffer zone, so-"

"Wait." Kurt pushes himself to his feet, taking a step towards Rachel. "What did you say."

"Um…" Rachel says, somewhat confused, "buffer zone?" Kurt shakes his head.

"No, before that."

"He's scared of Blaine's pet sociopath?"

Kurt raises an eyebrow. "I'd love to ask, but no – before _that_."

"Jesse's Talent is Shielding?" Rachel tries.

Kurt nods. "What does that have to do with anything?"

_I would have thought it was obvious? _"I thought it was pretty obvious," she says shortly, a bit frustrated with Kurt's slowness. "You know, what with Gabriel's Compulsion and everything…"

Kurt freezes.

Literally – every muscle is locked, jaw rigid and hard.

Everything's frozen except his eyes, which burn with a sudden frightening understanding, cold blue fires that blaze till Rachel's forced to look away.

"Gabriel's a Compeller."

She nods, slightly confused. "Well yes," she says, "but-"

"Gabriel. Of. Altha. Is. A. Compellor."

"Yes?"

"A _fucking _Compellor."

Figuring he's probably got the idea and is now just repeating himself for dramatic effect (Rachel understands, she does it all the time), she stays silent.

Rachel hears an explosive sigh. "_Shit_.I can't even – how did you find _out_?"

"Blaine didn't tell you?"

"He told me he couldn't, and that I should ask you," Kurt mutters. "Compulsion…why didn't I think of that?" He shudders. "But why _would _I?"

_That's why he was looking through that book. Blaine didn't tell him, and I suppose blood magic's the worst Kurt would think it gets._

Rachel knows exactly what her friend means; she's heard of Compulsion, but only in the context of scary stories before she turned eight and stopped being scared by them. It's rare, so rare as a Talent that no one knows much about it, which makes it even more frightening.

It's also why she hasn't, despite all her efforts since foreign affairs became her responsibility after her engagement to Finn, ever before managed to find out Gabriel's Talent.

"Wait, when did he tell you to ask me?"

"What? Oh, last week, the morning after the _Incident_." They've taken to calling it that, not entirely sure what else to use – _Feast _is a misnomer because neither Kurt nor Blaine actually ate anything, _Disaster _isn't wholly accurate though Rachel's nose (broken by Lopez in what Rachel is trying her hardest to think of as a fit of friendship-inspired rage) would probably beg to differ.

"A whole week?" Rachel asks, confused. "Why didn't you ask me-"

"Rachel. Compulsion. How you know._ Now_."

"Fiiiiine," she sighs, "but it's a long story."

* * *

><p>"I like long stories!"<p>

Santana sighs as she toys with a strand of Brittany's long golden hair, lying half-on her back and half-on her side, too lazy to actually get up. She's really, _really _not in the mood, because today there had actually been sun outside (something she's starting to learn is somewhat of a fucking miracle here rather than the normalcy it is in Altha), and they've just had a damn good dinner and had a round of bloody brilliant sex that, for once, has actually half-satisfied Santana's veracious needs .

She supposes that it is really her fault for bringing up this whole topic of past 'relationships', but honestly…

"Brit," she tries, almost unconsciously softening the natural harshness of her voice (she tries not to think about it, because if she does she might just lose the dinner they ate), "it's not a fun story."

Santana feels Brittany's shoulders shrug slightly beneath her fingers, which by now have drifted to the girl's soft skin. "I know," Brittany says, "it's why you're sad." Santana frowns, sitting up slightly.

"I'm not sad."

Brittany's eyes meet hers. "Then why are you crying?" she asks, wide-eyed confusion dimming the brilliant sky-blue of her eyes.

She actually reaches up to her eyes, even though she _knows _she's not crying and this was ages ago anyway, so it's not like she still cares, and fuck this she's meant to be returning back to Altha soon – it's already been a _week_, and the guards have already gone back. If Santana leaves now, she might catch up (because honestly, no one's better with horses than she is)…

But Brittany's cute and simply _great _in bed (and damn perceptive despite the apparent scatter-brainedness) and this is the first time in a while that Santana thinks she might be onto something _good_, something good enough that she might take a rain check on that return (or tell Anderson to shove it up his ass.) Besides, the fact that she's even _willing _to tell this story, despite having known the other girl for barely over a week says a lot.

"Fine, fine," Santana groans, rolling to lie flat on her back, raising her knees so her feet are flat on the bed. "I'll tell you. But I did warn you."

" _Have you heard of _Argitu_? The festival, I mean," Blaine asks. _

_Rachel nods. "Yeah!" she exclaims. "They call it the Festival of Light here. It doesn't really work here, you know, with the weather and everything, but back home it's really big."_

"_Alright." The word comes out soft and rasping so he clears his throat and tries again. "So." It doesn't sound much better so he gives up and just starts talking. "Sara's just…not there…the whole time. The whole week. But we sort of just assume that she's gone away to visit family or something, and anyway Santana wasn't particularly concerned so the rest of us just figured it wasn't a big deal."_

We should have known_, he thinks bitterly. _It didn't make sense, but we didn't bother to think about it because we were too busy having fun.

_The fact that he knows it wasn't their fault doesn't help at all._

"_So the morning after the last day of _Argitu_,_ _we're called into court. And Sara's there. Tied up and everything, executioner standing behind her with a whip. And Gabriel" the name makes him want to vomit, "orders them to start on her. And we're standing there, and you can just see people turning around to ask 'what the hell is going on?' because no one knew. And…"_

_Blaine bites his lip hard enough to bleed. "…and I can't decide whether to hope she's done something wrong because then it wouldn't just be my brother being a douche or whether to believe that she doesn't deserve it because Sara is seriously one of the nicest people I know, though I suppose that's not saying much considering Santana-"_

"_Um, Blaine," Rachel interjects, tone a mix between confused, tense and amused. "You're, you know, rambling."_

"_Oh. Right."_

_He takes a breath, and then exhales heavily. "And then the trigger was activated."_

_Rachel frowns. "What was it?"_

_Blaine shakes his head, but continues without answering the question. "He'd caught her in bed with Santana. It was the day before the festival started. He had her dragged to the dungeons. The only time I think I've ever heard 'Tana beg."_

"_She must have been down there the whole time while we were having fun," he realises suddenly. "Seven days alone in the dark, thinking that none of us _cared_…" He laughs bitterly. "He would have been planning it for ages. Compelling everyone who'd heard – wiping our memories, making us not _care_…it takes a while to build up a strong enough connection to people which you need for something as powerful as that," he explains, because apparently Compulsion is actually illegal everywhere except in the Sun Kingdoms and even he doesn't really understand how it works so he doubts Rachel would._

_It's a bizarre idea to him; Compulsion being _illegal_. _

_There's a moment of silence, till finally Rachel breaks it._

"_What was the trigger?" _

_Blaine swallows and clears his throat._

"_She started screaming," he says softly._

"Eurgh," Blaine says out loud, attracting a semi-curious glance from the gardener.

"Is anything wrong, Your Highness?" the man asks politely and, embarrassed, Blaine shakes his head quickly.

"No, nothing," he stammers, earning yet another strange look before the other man shrugs and turns away, leaving Blaine to ponder on the memory. They've been here for just over a week now, and it's been ages since that…stuff…happened.

He doesn't really know why he's thinking about it again – perhaps because he'd just seen Santana at lunch, wiping tomato sauce away from around the mouth of that blonde girl (Brittany, he thinks her name might be) with a napkin, eyes soft in a way Blaine's fully aware Santana would never dare look at him. He'd only ever seen her look at one person in that way before…

Which, of course, as he came out here (traipsing towards the greenhouse through the snow, trying not to let himself stay still for too long because he'd been almost up to his waist in the cursed stuff and _still _hadn't felt the comforting reassurance of real ground), had led his thoughts straight to the Sara Affair.

He shivers, though it's warm – almost _too _warm, though he isn't complaining – inside the confines of the greenhouse. "Why are we related?" Blaine asks plaintively, staring at the orange sapling, now transferred to a slightly larger pot.

Thankfully, and rather predictably, it doesn't reply.

Sighing, Blaine leans forward in the hard wooden chair he's sitting in, brushing his nose against the thick green leaves and inhaling deeply the scent of young fruit. Oranges and other citrus fruit are one of Altha's biggest exports; so as Blaine's surrounded by the heady perfume, he's almost able to forget where he is.

Finally, though, the leaves tickling his cheeks and nose become too much and he's forced to lean back.

_Fucking Gabriel_.

He shakes his head. "I've got to think positively," Blaine tells himself, unsurprisingly unconvincing. "I'm warm right now – at least till I go outside – and my room is nice, and hey, Kurt isn't half-bad for a _Erdara_, which I really shouldn't even be calling him because I don't think that'd really go down well in translation, and…_goddamnit_."

Blaine's somewhat aware that he's pretty much improvising a dramatic soliloquy here, minus the audience. But there's no one listening.

"_No one cares, Blaine. Not about you, not about your life."_

"Shut up, Gabriel," Blaine mutters, but the voice of his older brother lingers like oil spilt on the surface of a pond.

And so, Blaine does the only thing he _can _do.

_I'm dying to catch my breath_  
><em>Oh why don't I ever learn?<em>  
><em>I've lost all my trust,<em>  
><em>though I've surely tried to turn it around<em>

_Can you still see the heart of me?_  
><em>All my agony fades away<em>  
><em>when you hold me in your embrace<em>

Blaine stops.

"That really doesn't work," he realises with a frown, staring at the orange sapling. "But I suppose '_when I hold you in my embrace_' doesn't quite have the same flow. I'd ask you what you think, but I don't suppose you actually care; unless you do, and I've just upset your potentially fragile plant sensibilities. Which would suck because I think we get along pretty well and…I am talking to a plant. Wow. It's been three weeks and I'm talking to trees. This is _brilliant_..."

"Indeed," comes the amused murmur from behind Blaine.

* * *

><p><strong>Next time: <strong>

_'...because Finn's clumsiness might have made him laugh, but now he's just trying not to be a disappointment to everyone he gives a shit about._

_And so he doesn't collapse to the floor, doesn't let the ocean of tears welling in his eyes fall, because that won't help anyone._

_"Blaine?"_

_It's Kurt. It's always Kurt now, now that he's trapped here._

_"Leave me alone." Is that his voice? It doesn't sound like his voice. But Kurt flinches away from him, sparkling eyes hardening for a split second, and he knows it's his voice._

_"Blaine-"_

_"Fuck off!"'_

_..._Basically, next chapter has plot and angst and emotion and _stuff_, as opposed to plain exposition (I'm really sorry if you found it boring but it had to happen =/)

The song referenced is 'All I Need' by Within Temptation (a great band, though I'm not sure that Glee would quite be able to pull them off.)

Please take the time to review, thanks for reading, and I shall see you guys next time!

Love, Zayre


	8. Propositions

**Why are there so many fucking douches in this fucking stupid world who don't give a fucking piece of shit about their fucking friends?**

**AN: **Sorry, but...okay, who the fuck throws away 7 fucking years of friendship without a fucking WORD?

...Sorry again.

Anyway, one thing this AN: a PLOT SUMMARY (of events so far) because a reviewer expressed their confusion and I totally understand (sorry about that!)

**Dear lacymadroof (and others), here is your plot summary - I actually tried to message you a 400 word essay but then my internet crashed. Sorry for being so cryptic re: writing, I promise to try be more clear. Thank you so much for telling me!**

- 2 main kingdoms so far - north and south (**Sun Kingdoms** and **Low Lands**). Think of North as Soviet Union and South as US in terms of political structure/freedoms - though the North is ruled by violence rather than military threat and the provinces that make up the Low Lands have more independence than each of the states in the US.

- Magic is used by pretty much everyone and basically replaces technology (except for transport, because I like horses.) Everyone has a **Talent** - something that they're best at (e.g. Rachel's is Healing) - and a **medium**, their best way of essentially conducting magic - Rachel's, for example, is music, specifically singing.

- Blaine, brother of the homophobic King Gabriel of the north, is sent to marry Kurt, Prince of the south despite Blaine not wanting to leave his home/get married. Note, Blaine's spent a long time being abused by Gabriel.

- Kurt realises that Blaine doesn't want to get married and so institutes an old magical pre-marriage law, which basically lets them both wait till they love each other (yay!)

- However, Wes and David (who have been spying on the boys) seem rather perturbed and Santana has an interesting reaction.../ominous

- During this, we find out about the existence of lots of blood and loyalty magic that is constraining but we don't know much about it. Also, Gabriel's Talent is this somewhat confusing thing called Compulsion which seems to be some crazy mind-control thing but once again, no one really knows much about it.

- ON THE SIDE - Brittany and Santana have hooked up, Wes and David are presumably going strong, Finn is clueless, and Jesse's come running, wanting a political alliance with Kurt to stop from being bashed by Blaine's brother. Awkward times for all.

AND NOW, FOR THE ACTUAL CHAPTER...enjoy!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 8 - Propositions<strong>

Kurt's somewhat impressed; though Blaine does twitch violently, his voice is almost completely neutral when he asks, without even turning around to look at Kurt, "how much of that did you hear?"

"I missed the beginning of the song," Kurt admits easily, pulling a chair up beside Blaine. During the past week, they're comfortable enough with the situation and (Kurt hopes) with each other that they've fallen, almost unconsciously, into certain habits – trying to freak out the other with unexpected entries, for one. "Unfortunately, I must say. Your voice is _breathtaking_."

The other boy's cheeks darken as he blushes. "Thank you," Blaine murmurs, voice low and husky in a way that, like every other time, makes Kurt bite his lip and think firmly of kissing Brittany.

"Don't thank me," Kurt says dismissively, though he can feel the blood rise to his own cheeks. "I might as well warn you that you're probably going to be the entertainment at whatever the next feast is, because honestly I think we're _all _sick to death of Rachel's voice." He adds a smile at the end to show that he's joking (maybe) because, though they haven't known each other for long, Kurt's already realised that Blaine really takes many things far more seriously than he should.

Blaine's lips curve slightly in acknowledgement, but almost instantaneously he appears to become lost in his own thoughts again, eyes trained on the fruit (orange?) tree before him. Kurt, for his part, isn't really looking forward to the conversation he knows they're going to have, and so he prolongs the silence for as long as possible.

It's Blaine who breaks it in the end. "You've talked to Rachel," he says calmly, still staring forwards.

Kurt bites his lip, suddenly nervous. "Yeah, I have."

"Mmm. What did she tell you about?" Blaine asks, hand reaching forward to rub against the thick leaves of the tree.

"Mistress Lopez's – Santana's – friend…?"

The other boy rolls his eyes; and yet, Kurt has the impression that he's somewhat _relieved_.

_Didn't Rachel tell me everything? _Kurt asks himself, suddenly worried.

"Trust that woman to fall for a girl she couldn't even protect," Blaine sighs. Kurt bristles, about to let loose a rant about how she shouldn't have _needed _to protect – Sara? Was that her name? – from anyone, about how homophobia is ridiculous and unfounded and isn't the fault of the _victim_; but then Blaine starts speaking again.

"I think the worst part was Santana's face," Blaine says, still in that calm, almost impassive tone, and his normally-expressive hazel eyes are curiously dull and empty. "When she realised. He can't do anything to her, because…" His voice falters, and Kurt frowns, curious.

But Blaine merely clears his throat before changing the subject slightly, leaving Kurt more than a little frustrated. He _knew _there was something about Santana that he'd missed, but he still doesn't know _what_, exactly.

"Anyway," Blaine says, "It's _Altzazkin_ magic, Co- Gabriel's Talent."

Though he doesn't know the word, Kurt tries not to let it show – but Blaine obviously notices the confusion in his eyes and the corner of his mouth twitches slightly.

"'Conditional' is what it's called here, I think," Blaine explains briefly, but Kurt raises an eyebrow, still somewhat lost, and he tries again. "Passive magic; cause and effect, magic that doesn't happen unless-"

"I get the idea, Blaine," Kurt cuts in, amused till he sees the flicker of annoyance before Blaine looks away.

"Yes, well," Blaine says, not looking back up at Kurt, "it's…not fun. Because it only works if you do something, right? So you spend most of your time wondering what's going to activate something he'd laid down when h-" He stops again, as if the air has been forced from his lungs.

"Are you alright?" Kurt asks worriedly, leaning forwards in his chair.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm fine," the other boy says distractedly. "Honestly, I don't have much to complain about; Sara was the first time he really used it directly on _me_, anyway."

"Used Compulsion on you, you mean?"

The other Prince flinches noticeably at the word as if he wasn't aware that was what they were talking about. "Yeah," Blaine says, and there's a hint of caution in his tone. "The first time he…Compelled…me? I suppose." Something flickers in Blaine's eyes but Kurt, looking down for a moment to brush the fragment of a leaf off his long black coat (not the best choice for him, he reflects, because it brings out the paleness of his skin and makes him look like a _ghost_), doesn't notice.

He processes what Blaine just said and looks up quickly. "You can say it now!" he exclaims.

"Yeah," Blaine agrees, and perhaps Kurt's just imagining it but Blaine doesn't seem as happy as he should be after a complex bit of magic placed on him had vanished. "You said it first, so I suppose that snapped…whatever Gabriel did."

"You mean the Compulsion?" Kurt asks sharply, and suddenly, for a reason he doesn't understand, he wants Blaine to say the word. _Needs _him to say it.

"That," Blaine mutters.

"Blaine, really…" Kurt begins.

"Compulsion! Compulsion, compulsion, compulsion!" Blaine shouts, surging to his feet and pushing his chair back violently, before rounding on Kurt. "_Happy_? I can say it, alright? It's not about the goddamned _Compulsion_, Kurt, it's about the fact that – you know what, _you _try living your whole life with someone like that, and _then _you try saying the one word that'll always remind you of him!"

Blaine is practically snarling by the end, like he was a week ago, the other time Kurt had seen him like this. Figuring that the same approach he took last time would probably work just as well this time (which is to say, not _too _well but what else is he meant to do?), Kurt forces himself to stand slowly, never breaking eye contact with the other boy.

"Blaine, you're overreacting," Kurt says calmly. _Again_, he doesn't add.

Blaine's eyes widen, but not in surprise. This time, the flicker of annoyance isn't so much a flicker as a surge of _anger _that darkens his eyes to a near-black

"Overreacting?" Blaine asks, just as calmly as Kurt.

_Okay, maybe not the best idea_.

Kurt tries to sidle away but the chair stops him, and by the time he's kicked it away he can already feel the tendrils of magic winding around him, holding him to the ground.

"Now, I'll admit, _this_ could be called overreacting," Blaine continues, stepping forwards till he's barely a few inches away from Kurt, and the magic continues to spread, holding all of Kurt's limbs firmly. "If I was using Fire right now to hold you instead of Water, that _would _be overreacting."

He's right – Kurt can feel the fluidity of the cool bonds constricting him, that don't cut in like Air or burn like Fire, or sear like raw magic.

Blaine leans forwards slowly till his lips ghost over Kurt's ear, and whereas the week before Blaine probably had no idea of what he was doing, this time he seems perfectly aware of the tingles running down Kurt's spine as Blaine's breath tickles the sensitive skin, and _where on earth is the Blaine that blushes when I give him a compliment and can't talk about music without his voice going as high as Rachel's_?

"Don't you dare presume," Blaine whispers, and _Goddess _the words, harsh and angry, don't match the soft seductive tone, "to know _anything _about me ever again."

Blaine steps backwards and the magic dissipates, returning to the boy though trace elements linger in the air.

He blinks as Kurt collapses to the floor, unresponsive muscles no longer supported by the bonds.

"Shit," Blaine gasps, and it's _nice _Blaine again, suddenly. "I'm so sorry, Kurt!" he exclaims, dropping to his knees before Kurt and taking Kurt's pale hands in his own darker, callused hands. "I'm so sorry, so so sorry, I don't know what came over me," he babbles, "I just-"

"Overreacted?" Kurt asks, words harsh and hoarse.

Blaine freezes and starts to pull away, murmuring a cooler, more formal "my apologies" under his breath, but Kurt grabs onto Blaine's wrists, arresting his movement.

"Stop," Kurt orders surprisingly firmly. "Just…give me a second."

They sit like that for a few long minutes, listening as Blaine's breathing becomes less heavy and harsh, as Kurt's breaths slow and even out.

He clears his throat. "No," he whispers, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have, you kno-"

"_Kurt_!"

They both turn to the flung-open door of the greenhouse, Blaine wincing as cold air rushes in around the tall figure in the doorway panting and huffing, hands on his knees. "Emergency, Kurt!" Finn wheezes. "It's about what-his-name, Cain, Bane-"

Blaine laughs lightly, a sound that makes Kurt smile for the sincerity and warmth of the sound.

"Blaine is right here, Finn," Kurt sighs, and Finn looks up, breathing still ragged.

"Oh good," he says feebly, before seeming to realise that he's interrupted something. "Um, I can come back in five minutes, if you want…"

"Finn, you look like you've just been running away from a pack of snow-dragons."

Blaine bursts into laughter suddenly, and Kurt sends him a quizzical glance before he pushes himself to his feet, offering a hand to Blaine who takes it with a grateful smile. "Just tell me now, Finn," Kurt says wearily.

Finn bites his lip. "Um…it might be better if I just show you…"

"Show me what?" Kurt asks.

Later, he'll almost wish he hadn't asked.

* * *

><p><em>Wes sighs. "Look, Santana, I'd tell you more if I could. But I…can't. I honestly <em>can't_. Just…please."_

_There's something in that last word that triggers a suspicion in Santana, and Wes smiles as he sees her brow furrow in thought. "You have to do it yourself, Lopez," he tells her softly. "You're smart – probably," he adds, and once again she admires her own self-restraint. "You have to figure it out."_

"_Figure what out?"_

_Wes jumps backwards and into the cupboard, yelping as his bare back hits what sounds like metal. Santana, with her inhuman self-restraint, doesn't react._

"_Lord Wesley," Anderson nods to Wes, who tries to bow while simultaneously rubbing his back. Anderson looks towards Santana, who meets his deceptively warm hazel-brown eyes (too like Blaine's) boldly. Technically, she should be curtseying lower than Wes is, or at least putting on some more clothes. But technicalities have never applied to her and Anderson knows it, because though his jaw clenches he doesn't comment._

"_Mistress Lopez," Anderson says simply, and it's more the triumph in his eyes than the words themselves that makes Santana want to gouge his vocal chords out with her bare hands. "I trust Wesley here hasn't kept you awake _all _night?" The malicious smile that touches the King's lips is amusing, if only because Santana knows he has no idea what she and Wes do at night._

_Why, last night they were playing a nice game of chess. Santana never admits it because she values her reputation as a slut too much, but she plays chess – and enjoys it, too – a lot more than sex, if only because sex with guys has never been first priority on her list of things to do._

_And the other option…well, Santana refuses to think about that._

"_Of course, Anderson."_

_It's a testament to _his_ own self-restraint, she admits grudgingly, that he doesn't respond to that. Instead, he turns to Wes. "I trust you recall our…agreement?"_

_Wes' face is relaxed, his eyes concealing nothing as he replies amiably, "how could I not, your Majesty?"_

_Anderson smiles. "Wonderful." He turns to leave, but stops, looking back at Santana. "Ah…Mistress Lopez. If you'll accompany me for a moment?"_

_She scowls behind his back but doesn't argue, because of a set of reasons that have nothing to do with respect and everything to do with the fact that she doesn't like the idea of being whipped. Or executed. There's been too much of the latter lately._

"_Now," he says as she follows him into an abandoned room, "I have a favour to ask of you…"_

…"_and I wish you a safe journey."_

_She blinks._

"_Pardon?"_

He_ blinks. "A safe journey? You leave today, is it not?"_

_Santana shakes her head slightly, not in disagreement, but in confusion. "But I thought…" She trails off, more confused than before. She thought what? What was she saying? He'd called her aside to tell her to look after that hobbit of a brother of his – she didn't see why, because as loath as she was to admit it, she'd look after Blaine till the death._

_Only because that idiot was so pathetic that _someone _would have to do it, of course._

"…_Sorry," she muttered. "Got a bit confused there."_

_Wes is waiting for her when she gets back to his rooms. "What happened?" he demands._

_She shrugs. "Nothing, really. Anderson just wanted to prattle, I'll bet."_

_Wes rolls his eyes. "It's interesting that, of the three of them, King Gabriel's the only one you actually call by a name. Old King James you always called 'old man', even to his face, and Blaine…" Wes trails off, grinning. "I can't think of anything you _haven't _called him."_

_She grins back, and they slip into easy banter._

Santana growls in frustration as Brittany looks on, a mix of placid concern and bemusement in her eyes and soft smile. "I can't remember," she snarls, "fucking Gods, I can't _remember_."

Brittany frowns. "What do you mean?"

"It was the morning of the day we left Altha. Anderson – fucking douche of a King – came in, but _I don't remember when_. And then he said something to Wes but I _can't remember what_, and then he asked – fucking _ordered _– me to talk to him. But I _can't remember what happened afterwards_."

Brittany shrugs. "Does it matter? If it doesn't, can we go back to making out? And if it does…can you do it later?"

The offer is so tempting – so tempting that Santana opens her mouth to agree.

_Compulsion, compulsion, compulsion!_

And then there's no thought in Santana's head.

Just agony.

And as she falls to the ground screaming till her throat is so raw she can only sob silently, Brittany's eyes widen, seeing something no one else could.

It takes Rachel, for all her power, over half an hour to break down the door and find Santana convulsing on the floor as Brittany stares into nothingness, eyes blank and devoid of any consciousness.

* * *

><p>"Are you sure?" Kurt asks, voice formal and hard as he stares at Lord William, somehow managing to look down at the tall, muscled noble even though the top of Kurt's perfectly-coiffed hair barely reaches the other man's chin. Blaine remembers Kurt telling him about how this man tutored pretty much all the high-ranking nobles his age from the Low Lands and the Western Plains – Kurt himself, Finn, Rachel, Quinn of House Fabray and Queen of the Western Plains as well as her Consort, Noah Puckerman, and even the fabled and feared Jesse of Carmel.<p>

Right now, though, Blaine doesn't see a boy and his teacher; he sees a Prince and his vassal.

Though it's Blaine they're talking about, Blaine feels oddly disconnected from the conversation; from everything going on. His mind's still stuck about fifteen minutes ago, when his power had wrapped around Kurt like a lover's embrace.

Normally – that is, half an hour ago – Blaine would shiver at the thought of Kurt as his _lover_, but this time he merely brushes the thought aside, trying to remember exactly what had been running through his veins as he had done what he had done, in that greenhouse.

_Compulsion compulsion compulsion! _He'd shouted that in frustration, he remembers; but he doesn't understand how that could have turned into the violent rage that had pulsed through his veins. Blaine knows himself fairly well; at least, he thought he did. He'd never seen himself as the type to get angry like that, to turn into a beserker over something so minor.

Blaine's not stupid; he knows what the solution is, but he refuses to acknowledge it because, honestly, what's the point?

_Control. That's what I need. Control. I can push through it all if I try, I know I can. I just need control_.

He's not going to tell Kurt – he can't, even if he wanted to – and he knows Rachel hasn't either, because they're both so caught up in revelation that Gabriel's a Compellor that they're not going to make the connection…

"Blaine, do you think this is true?"

Blaine starts.

"Pardon?" he asks politely. "What was the question?" though he doesn't have the slightest idea what they're talking about.

All three of them – Finn, Kurt and Lord William – look at Blaine as though he's crazy. "Were you paying attention?" Kurt asks, almost rudely. Blaine frowns; Kurt is attractive, and funny, and intelligent, and nice on occasion but _honestly _they've known each other for barely over a week and he is Blaine of House Anderson and sometimes Kurt's abrasiveness rubs him the wrong way, just a little bit.

But _Asmoa Maiteak _(he still doesn't understand it but whatever) or not, Blaine's still a guest here; so rather than retorting, he smiles. "I'm sorry," he apologises calmly. "I've been a bit tired lately."

Tired's an understatement. Every day, he's being introduced to more and more people whose names he could never hope to remember. Every day, he's being told that next week they're going to this place, and he needs to learn the Low Lands dialect of Altherian soon because _honestly_, his accent is really not pleasant (though admittedly, that's just Rachel who _says_ that.) Every day, he wakes up in the warmth of his room and sees the illusion of sun and warmth through the window and thinks that maybe, just maybe, he might be back home where he belongs.

Lord William cuts through his reverie with – "it's your brother, your Highness. King Gabriel of the Low Lands. He…" the nobleman swallows heavily.

Kurt takes his place. "You know Provision 14.8, don't you, Blaine?"

Blaine grimaces. _How could I not? _It was the anti-homosexuality 'guideline' Gabriel had instituted in Altha as regional law; it didn't have the same weight as a full decree (thank the Gods) and therefore didn't extend past the borders of the capital city of Altha, and like most Provisions, Props and Decrees, was useless against anyone with the slightest drop of noble blood.

But it was bad enough to get Sara.

He doesn't say all of that, of course; just a quiet "of course."

Kurt hesitates.

"_What is it?" Blaine asks, just as he's about to leave his brother's room and retire to his room for the night._

"_Hmm?" For once, Gabriel's voice contains no hostility. "This? Oh, you don't need to worry yourself about this, brother."_

_Gabriel sweeps his hand over the paper and the words vanish, fading into the crisp parchment. "Rest well, Blaine."_

_Instead, Blaine spends the whole night tossing and turning, unable to clear what he thinks he read on that page from his mind._

"What is it?" Blaine asks softly, even though he already knows what the boy is going to say.

"I'm sorry, Blaine-"

"Please."

His voice barely wavers, and he's proud of it.

Kurt takes a deep breath and looks down at the parchment in his hand. Unrolling it again, he clears his throat.

"_And thus, by the power invested in us by the First King of the Confederation of the Sun Kingdoms, Proposition 8 is declared law; that any and all acts of indecency as perpetrated for recreational purposes between two consenting members of the similar gender be regarded as a most heinous crime to the laws of our natural realm of existence, and an offence to the Gods themselves_."

There's a pause, but Blaine, sensing that Kurt's not finished, doesn't say anything – and sure enough, after a moment of deathly silence, Kurt continues.

"_As is constant with all laws of the Confederation, this decree is not to be enforced with the punishment of death against any members of the royal families of the Kingdoms of Altha, Karnath, Dadri, Ilaré, Sandar, Theirel, as well as those of the ruling Houses of all member provinces of the Confederation._"

Blaine doesn't know whether to be grateful or not for that.

"_A two week period of clemency shall be afforded to those suffering secretly from this most hideous affliction within which they are adjured to remedy their repugnant style of living. All known homosexuals are also to be offered this period of clemency; however, following the conclusion of these two weeks, they are to either denounce publically this most disgraceful practice, or to leave the Sun Kingdoms permanently. _

_Thus we decree, we, who are by the grace of the Gods, Gabriel, Head of House Anderson, Reignant of the Kingdom of Altha and Over-King of the Confederation of the Sun Kingdoms._"

Blaine stands still for a long moment, before moving to a wall and leaning gratefully against it.

His feet hurt, and his back too. Which shouldn't really be happening, because after all he's only 17 years old (18 in a month, thank the Gods), and back aches should only happen to old people.

As for his feet, maybe it's the shoes. They make shoes well here, in the south – understandable, because the stone is hard and it snows more than it doesn't, but now his feet feel soaking wet and hot and sticky even through the thick layers of fur and leather and whatever they make shoes out of. He'd like nothing more than to go back to his room and take off the shoes, put them neatly in the corner and feel the cool stone against his feet.

But no – the chambers here are carpeted in a thick soft fur, a pale beige. _His _room is floored with marble that keeps him cool even during the hottest of summer days, infused with magic that he would like to think he did when he was seven, even though he knows that his father had guided his magic, had made sure that he didn't spill over the boundaries of the complex patterns being carved with a combination of their powers to ensure that the charms would hold.

_Dad_.

He's never going to see his father's grave again.

He wishes he hadn't gotten out of bed today; wishes that he'd never left home, that he'd run away to Karnath with Santana and had never come here; because Finn's clumsiness might have made him laugh, but now he's just trying not to be a disappointment to everyone he gives a shit about.

And so he doesn't collapse to the floor, doesn't let the ocean of tears welling in his eyes fall, because that won't help anyone.

"Blaine?"

It's Kurt. It's always Kurt now, now that he's trapped here.

"Leave me alone." Is that his voice? It doesn't sound like his voice. But Kurt flinches away from him, sparkling eyes hardening for a split second, and he knows it's his voice.

"Blaine-"

"Fuck off!"'

"_KURT!"_

The four of them – Blaine, Kurt, Finn who's standing awkwardly to the side, unsure of how to react to the fight, and Lord William who looked about to intervene – pivot around to see Rachel, strands of hair falling over her face despite the hideous headband that she always wears.

_Her sense of fashion is worse than mine_, Blaine thinks, eyeing the hideous pink of her dress and the way it clashes with the scarlet red cloak around her shoulders.

"We've got a problem," Rachel gasps, and now that she's closer, Blaine realises that her face is unhealthily pale despite the fact that she's obviously been running, and her brow Is moist with sweat.

Blaine frowns, inhaling deeply. He can _taste _the magic whirling around her and he can see it crackling over her skin – over fingers and limbs that are trembling with exhaustion.

He frowns. There's something odd about it; from the moment Blaine met Rachel, he'd been able to sense her strength. But now…

It's still _there_, but it feels…muted.

As he looks around Blaine sees the concern in Lord William's eyes, sees Finn rushing to Rachel's side to help her up, and he knows they can sense it too.

Not so for the slender boy standing next to Blaine. Kurt, obviously distracted by…whatever it was that Rachel interrupted…doesn't notice these things. "Not now, Rachel," he says brusquely. He's about to say more when Blaine, frustrated at the Prince's inability to see what's _going on_, moves his hand slightly.

He feels the other boy's vocal chords relax as he performs a simple manipulation of the Water particles, and when Kurt makes to speak nothing comes out.

Blaine ignores Kurt's affronted glare – it'll wear off soon enough, or at least when the particles realise they're not in the right place, anyway – and steps towards Rachel, taking her hands in his gently, carefully, trying not to startle her.

"Rachel, what's wrong?"

She looks into his eyes and starts to sob wearily. "I tried everything I can," she whispers. "And I'm so _tired_…"

"Rachel, what are you talking about?"

"I should have used internal magic earlier, I should have thought of it but honestly I just _didn't_, and I'm so exhausted and besides it doesn't make _sense_, I mean, I know _why _but I don't _understand_ why, and it took so _long_…"

"Rachel. Focus." He transfers both her hands to his left hand, using the right to hold her chin gently but firmly. "Who are you talking about?"

Rachel sighs, a shuddering sound that somehow seems to take the tears from her; though her face is still wet with the intermingling of perspiration and tears, no fresh droplets fall from her large brown eyes. "It's Lopez," she says quietly. "Your…companion, Santana Lopez. She…" Rachel trails off, before shaking her head.

"Rachel," Blaine whispers, even more softly than Rachel, "please tell me she's not…"

Rachel bites her lip, and suddenly aware that he's still got her chin in his hand, Blaine steps backwards, letting his hand fall to his side.

"Blaine, you'd better come with me."

* * *

><p><strong>AN: <strong>Now that I've had some time to reflect...nah, people are still douches. Especially men. Especially men when they won't ever accept that they might be the slightest bit wrong.

Anyway, thank you for reading, hopefully I can get the next chapter up soon (though I'm going to NEW CALEDONIA (YES!) this Sunday and not coming back till next Friday so the next chapter might not come out for a while unless I can get it up before I leave...)

Thanks again,

Love, Zayre


	9. Knees

**So basically, I woke up this morning, remembered what I wrote in my AN last chapter, and almost died with embarrassment. I am a twat. (Where on earth did that word originate from, btw?)**

**Anyway, this update is my apology**; also, the promise that after the next chapter, we get into the full-on (ish) Klaine. It should have started by like chapter 5 but I get too caught up in plot too often, at the risk of neglecting the point of the story. Also, all really confusing stuff will be completely cleared up by the end of next chapter - i.e. Compulsion, blood magic, Santana and Blaine and Gabriel's role in all of this (though some of that's in this chapter).

Sorry in advance, parts of this are probably going to be fairly dry/exposition-heavy because I'm trying to introduce the wider plot at the same time.

**In Other News:**

Brilliant, my formal date (I suppose formal's the equivalent of senior prom or something? I'm not sure) has cancelled on me. Formal is in 2 days. Gaaaaaah. He had a good reason, but still. Also, I go to an all-girls school (not private, but I think all-girls public schools are more common in Australia than in the States/...most countries.) And so I have no male friends. And no female friends outside of my school (because I'm antisocial). This is not good.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 9 - Knees<strong>

Rachel feels the caress of Water against her face and closes her eyes, revelling in the cleanness it affords her. It spreads down her body, coating her skin and seeping through the pores as the thinnest layer of Air keeps her clothes away from her.

It never fails to amaze her, how Finn's physical clumsiness becomes grace and elegance when he concentrates and relaxes, when he succumbs to his power. When his eyes flicker and widen, and his magic dances in response. A strange medium, and very specific – but it suits him, oddly enough…

"She'll come around soon, won't she?"

That's Blaine's voice, hoarse but curiously calm; almost as though he's trying to hold back another emotion welling within him. She sighs, letting herself feel _clean _for a moment longer before opening her eyes and turning towards him.

"Yeah," she says tiredly, walking over to the bed where Lopez lays, eves closed and olive skin a sickly pale green, chest barely moving with breath as her heartbeat thunders slowly and heavily in Rachel's ears.

She doesn't bother explaining to Blaine that the only reason his best friend is still alive is that Lopez's heartbeat is linked to Rachel's; she's too exhausted to speak and anyway, she's almost positive that Blaine can sense the connecting thread between her and Lopez – fine but strong, and one that will linger either till Lopez can support her own heart or till Rachel…

The bond flickers and Rachel sighs in relief as the thread snaps, their magics untwining as Rachel's returns to her and Lopez's withdraws back under her skin.

When she looks over at Blaine, she sees that he's sensed the transition; he's already moved quickly to sit by the girl's bed, the hand that had been buried in worry in his thick black curls now wrapped around Lopez's slightly darker fingers.

"Rachel?"

It's Kurt who says her name softly, slight confusion tingeing his tone, and she realises that, of _course_, he wouldn't have picked up on what had happened.

She smiles reassuringly. "It's fine, Kurt, it'll be f-"

"Rachel, Kurt."

They turn towards the door, where Mike stands, relaxed in a way he'd never be if there were anyone else in the room other than the four of them (Mr Schue's gone now, to the Council meeting.)

The Council meeting they're late for. "Blaine," Kurt says surprisingly gently, "we need to go. Is that alright?"

Blaine doesn't even look at them – just nods once, brusquely – and Rachel feels a twinge of rare pity for someone other than herself as she watches Kurt's eyes dim and harden.

"Come on, Kurt," Rachel says softly, tugging on his arm till he follows her.

* * *

><p>Blaine waits until the sound of footsteps has receded before leaning back, allowing his stern, sorrowful (at least, that's what he hopes he looked like) to turn into a smile, and he's barely able to restrain the rather un-manly giggles threatening to erupt.<p>

"They're gone, Santana," he sighs, rolling his eyes as Santana sits up quickly. "And honestly, playing dead? Shutting down your _heart_? You know, that is one of the _worst _semi-Talents _ever_."

"Says Mr I'm-still-in-diapers Untalented," Santana retorts, leaning back against the hard wood of the back of the bed. Though she pulls her hand away from him quickly with a look of absolute disgust on her face, she's not fast enough for him to miss the fact that she's still trembling, light tremors that he can barely see but that vibrate through her skin.

Sometimes, Blaine is glad he hasn't found his Talent yet – especially looking at Santana and Rachel. Talents have their price, and too often it's paid with life-force.

(Except with Gabriel, but then he's an exception to every goddamned rule of _anything _on the planet.)

"Besides, I had to think quickly, idiot. If I didn't, that stupid hobbit wouldn't have stopped probing through my _mind _and I really don't want to know what'd happen to me if she found out like _that_. Anyway, is that even _legal_?"

"Santana, sweetheart," he barely manages to dodge the fast, albeit weak, punch thrown in his direction, and maybe that was stupid but he needs _something _to hide his relief. "We come from a kingdom ruled by a guy whose main goal in life is to Compel people to do stupid things for his own amusement."

Blaine enjoys the sound of that word – _Compel_ – on his tongue, unhampered, rarely, by the impediment of blood magic, whispering rather un-fun things like '_traitor_' and '_death_' into his ear.

"You'd think you'd be _used _to having your mind hacked into pieces. Anyway, Rachel means well," he adds, somewhat defensive on behalf of the annoying but surprisingly fun noblewoman. "Considering you've actually wasted a good portion of her magic, you should at least _pretend _to tolerate her. And admit it, at least she's _good_."

Santana scowls at him. "Yeah, well at least that sociopathic douche is _our _sociopathic douche," she replies bitingly. "The sort of person I'd trust sociopathic douche-ness to _any _day. Not some foreign hobbit with a mono-brow and worse fashion sense than _you_."

"…Point," Blaine acknowledges with a slight smile, too tired to argue, as he leans back in the cushioned chair and closes his eyes, appreciating the comfortable silence that's fallen between them.

"Santana, are you okay?" he asks finally, eyes still closed.

She exhales heavily. "I've had worse," Santana replies, voice gruff, but he can sense the pain lingering. "Not sure what actually happened, but whatever. Remember that time I stacked it off the back of that dragon?" Blaine shudders melodramatically.

"Are you kidding? I still have _nightmares _about that. I have no idea what _possessed _me to go along with that, you know."

"It was back when you were still _normal_, and I was still fucking guys. I know _exactly _what possessed you."

Blaine wrinkles his nose. "Oh, okay Santana; that is waaay too gross. Even for you." Santana laughs shortly, a strained sound that contains no amusement.

"…I really can't tell you what happened, Blaine," Santana says finally, voice unusually serious. "Like, even if I _knew _what happened – which I don't, because one second I'm about to go back to getting it on with Brit, next I'm flapping around on the floor like a dying fish – I wouldn't be able to tell you."

Blaine doesn't open his eyes but can't prevent a resigned exhale. "Thought so. Damnit. I was hoping…but oh well. Can you tell me what the trigger was, at least?"

"What trigger?"

"So you can't even tell me if it's Compulsion or…"

Santana shakes her head. "But…for what it's worth, I don't think this was deliberate. Anderson's a fucking douche, but we both know he can't kill me. And if I hadn't shut myself down like that…" Santana shudders, as though death is a small slimy bug stuck in her hair, rather than…well, death.

"Right. So we're left with either Compulsion or blood magic, or _both_…do you feel suddenly realised? Anything missing from your mind?"

Again, she shakes her head. "I don't think it-" Santana chokes, coughing into her hands as Blaine, eyes snapping open, bites his lip in concern, wanting to do something but knowing very well that she won't take it well. After a moment of stillness, she takes her hands away from her mouth.

They're covered in blood.

_Talents have their price_.

Blaine bites his lip again but doesn't say anything, just lays a net of Water over her hands that gently cleans the blood away into nothingness, before Air blows them dry.

"I could have done that myself," Santana mutters, but Blaine just smiles.

* * *

><p>"I present the true son and heir of the late King of the Low Lands; Head of House Hummel, Kurt, Prince Regent and heir apparent of the Low Lands. Also accompanying him, Lady Rachel née of Joel Berry of the Western Plains, and beloved wife of Lord Finn of House Hudson!"<p>

Will smiles slightly as he hears the "okay, what?" that Rachel mutters under her breath, standing slightly on her toes so Kurt will hear her better, "I'm not _accompanying _you, they make me sound like a courtesan! And why are we being _announced_? Everyone knows who we are!"

"Shut up, Rachel," Kurt sighs, rolling his eyes.

_Ah, Rachel_, Will thinks ruefully, shaking his head slightly, standing with the rest of the table as Kurt walks to his seat at the head of the table – next to Will. _She never changes_.

"This meeting of the High Council of the Low Lands is called to order," Kurt says, voice quiet but somehow managing to carry throughout the large room. "You may all be seated." He sits, followed by the thirty-odd people seated around the long oval table.

As he glances at Kurt, the boy's face calm and serene as he flicks through the stack of papers detailing the latest developments in the internal and foreign affairs of the Low Lands, Will marvels at how his old student has grown; the slight roundness of childhood has faded, leaving lean, angularly refined features and long, slender limbs in its place. The personality that used to be eerily (and sometimes frustratingly) like Rachel's has quietened but not mellowed, and sometimes Kurt's sharp intelligence frightens Will.

Though Will knows he's never going to _like _Kurt, if only because of his biting tongue and unnerving intensity – at least not in the same way he liked Burt – he has to admit that Kurt is much better suited to being King than Burt ever was.

_Though that's not to say Burt made a _bad _King, _Will reminds himself. Quite the contrary; but Burt ran the country the same way a shopkeeper runs a shop, with a grim determination and efficiency.

People liked Burt, but they're _excited_ to see Kurt turn twenty one…

"Mr Schue?"

Will blinks. "Sorry," he apologises, "I must have drifted off for a moment there..."

Kurt smiles. "Don't worry about it," he replies reassuringly. "But we're finished with internal affairs," which Will is grateful for, because he understands the vital importance of grain in the economy but he doesn't really _care_, "and the first item on the list is…" Kurt glances down, "…Vastra."

_Oh._

Will's suddenly not grateful at _all_.

* * *

><p>"So Kurt and I were talking about it-"<p>

"_What_?" Santana tries to sit forward quickly but fails, collapsing back onto the bed with a gasp. "How the _fuck _does your _girl _know?"

_How did you not _die_? _is the question underlying that, with confusion and a hint of grudging envy. Blaine shrugs, deciding that, considering Santana's just died herself, it's probably not polite to call her out on that insult to Kurt. "It was an accident, actually," Blaine confesses. "Rachel saw the…you know. My back."

"Ah."

"Yeah. Anyway, we started talking, you know, about Gabriel and his general ability to be a sadistic bastard, and I told her about…" Blaine trails off.

"Ah."

"I don't know, the blood magic didn't seem to mind that, so I figured that it probably wouldn't get me if Rachel told Kurt. You know, the classic loophole."

"But?"

Blaine shakes his head. "It didn't, but…" He sighs, thinking back to earlier that day. "Alright," he mutters, "so I might have lost my temper. Just a little bit."

"Did you attack him?" Blaine winces.

"Um. Sort of? Not really? Maybe?"

"How the fuck do you _sort of _attack someone?"

"Fine, fine!" Blaine exclaims, eyes snapping open as he leans forwards to glare at Santana. "So I might have tied him up-"

"Kinky."

"But just a little bit!" Blaine almost stumbles on the words. "And only for like, a minute. Or a few. Or something."

"Right. And _why _exactly did you hit on this brilliant plan?"

_Good question_, Blaine acknowledges to himself. It's one that he doesn't know how to answer. Was it simply the fact that Kurt kept shoving that _word _in his face? Maybe it was simply the fact that the other boy had been so convinced it was Compulsion that had stayed his tongue, and Blaine had already been so homesick and frustrated that everything had just _happened_?

Of course, it could also have been the blood magic. He'd been sure that, as soon as Kurt made it clear he knew about Gabriel's Compulsion, Blaine could speak freely without fear of vengeance for the betrayal that telling a foreign royal about Blaine's brother's Talent would evoke from the ancient charms.

He couldn't have heard those half-whispers, carried on an imaginary wind, murmuring _'traitor' _in his ear…

"Idiot?"

"I…don't know," he whispers, looking down at his hands. "_Compulsion, compulsion, compulsion_."

Blaine doesn't see Santana flinch, nor the realisation that dawns on her face as she hears the words, and as he looks back up, her face is smooth again, though lines of pain crease her forehead.

"Well, as long as they think it's Compulsion, we're safe," Blaine shrugs.

"Bloody idiots," Santana sighs, "aren't they meant to be running a country? How the fuck do they think it's that simple?"

"Be nice," Blaine chides her mildly. "They don't even understand that some people don't like us _fags_." He knows that's not true; Kurt hasn't _said _anything, per say, but the shadows in his eyes when he refers to certain members of his Council that he can't afford to dismiss tell enough.

He knows it's not true, but he's sort of sick of how _easy _it is here.

"Scandal."

"Yeah I know, right? Did you know, brother dear passed Prop 8?"

"No, but brilliant. Nothing like a touch of homophobia to make life even more fucking exciting."

"Well yes, because you can kick the crap out of anyone who says anything to you."

Santana sighs. "You're in a good mood," she almost accuses him, mixed annoyance and amusement and – was that _concern_? – in her tone. "I'd have thought, you'd be a bit more…"

Finally, Blaine does open his eyes, meeting her dark brown gaze and shrugging. "What can I do?" he asks neutrally, electing not to open himself up to further embarrassment by telling her about his outburst earlier in the corridor.

Also, that would mean explaining what's been happening to him, and he's not sure he can.

_This sucks_. All of a sudden, Blaine thinks back to Kurt's expression as he shouted at him, and bites his lip.

He does like the other boy, no matter what he told himself earlier, still feeling the aftermath of that fiery rage; definitely not enough to _marry _him, but even over the past week and a half (_has it only been that long?_) he _has _come to appreciate Kurt's cutting wit, his razor-sharp intelligence, and that hidden softness that Blaine only rarely sees – that warm kindness that Blaine felt washing over him after that outburst in the greenhouse.

Add to the equation the fact that, with his soft unblemished skin, slender, tall frame and beautiful large eyes, Kurt is pretty damn _gorgeous_…

But damnit, there's too much happening for that to _matter _right now. And Blaine can't tell him, the things he wants so badly to say. Even with Santana, he feels the blood magic swell within his throat when he tries to say certain things.

He can't talk to _anyone_.

_Except Gabriel._

_Fucking Gabriel._

"Fucking Anderson," Santana echoes, slumping back down into bed.

Blaine shakes his head. _Fucking Gabriel_.

* * *

><p>"I'm afraid there's no good news at all," Will says grimly, opening the folder in front of him and rising to his feet to address the Council. "I have reports here that the Empress has successfully annexed the independent Kingdom of Westvale…"<p>

He pauses as groans and cries of dismay echo across the room.

"Whaat?" Azimio (Will can never remember the man's actual name, so he's always forced to substitute in the name of the loud-mouthed idiot's House) exclaims, accent as broad and grating as every. "How the f-" he cringes as Kurt, anticipating the profanity, glares at him, "…in the Goddess's name did that _happen_, Schuester? Under your watch, too!"

"Azimio, I am _not _responsible for something that happened over four thousand miles away in a kingdom that has no economic, political _or _military links to or advantages for us?" Will retorts sharply, extra bite in his words because he _does _feel guilty, whether or not he could have done anything about it. "What _is _important is that she completely decimated the capital city, slaughtered almost all members of the royal family except for a sixteen year old girl she obviously intends to use as a puppet-Reignant, and gained complete control of the whole kingdom – one that, I might add, is about the size of Lima – and is now eyeing the neighbour states. In _two weeks_."

"That is so not fair," Rachel mutters.

Will agrees, though he knows Rachel is probably thinking of something different – probably the speed and efficiency of this Empress.

There's always been an unspoken rule of warfare (except for up north in the Sun Kingdoms but they spent so much time _in _war, he supposes it's hard for them to develop customs in peace) that the noble and royal families are off-limits. Not for any moral reason of blood superiority, but for the pragmatic reason that most noble families intermarry; there's always the chance that the man who's just been hanged by his neck till dead has a second cousin twice removed in your Spymaster.

But this Empress Sue seems to be taking one look at the customs and laughing them into oblivion.

"At any rate, she's apparently ready to advance, with her army, the…" Will honestly debates whether to continue speaking, "…the _Cheerios_."

Everyone falls silent.

"…That is the most frighteningly terrible name for an army I've ever heard," Kurt says at last. "Are you _sure _we're not talking about two separate bloodthirsty Empresses here?"

"I certainly hope not," Will sighs. "One's already bad enough." The room nods in agreement.

Will takes a deep breath, unsure of how to approach the next point. "Kurt, Rachel told me you've agreed to a protective alliance with Jesse of Carmel…" Kurt nods. "Are you sure that's a good idea? What with the alliance with Gabriel of Altha-"

"An alliance which doesn't even exist, thanks to Hummel here!" Azimio interjects, and Will barely manages to restrain from punching the younger man in the mouth to shut him up.

"That will be enough," Kurt says tersely. "As for your unfounded _accusation_, Lord Azimio, do you really expect me to _force _his Highness of Altha to marry me? We are the Low Lands; not the Sun Kingdoms, and _certainly _not Vastra, and if you want to stay in this room then I'll thank you to remember it."

A collective shudder runs through the room, as the implied threat hits home. Though he's technically only Prince Regent, _no _one would question Kurt if he were to decide to cut loose any of the provinces. Azimio himself pales; his province, Titar, sits on the part of the Low Lands across the Diamond Sea; easy game if it loses the funding and magical defences that being a member province of the Low Lands offers.

"I agree with Kurt," Will says quickly, trying to steer the conversation back to safer waters. "However, Kurt, I really don't know if this is a good idea-"

Rachel clears her throat and Will sees the glance shared between her and Kurt.

_They're hiding something_, Will realises, stopping mid-sentence. _They're hiding something and that is not good_.

"Rachel?" he asks, hoping that she might reveal whatever it is that she and Kurt know; but Rachel looks over to Kurt, who, as Will looks over at him as well, moves his head just a fraction to the left, and then to the right.

_No_.

"It's nothing, really," she says evasively. "However, I have…reasons…for thinking that this is the best thing we can do."

"But-!"

Finn stops himself, but Will can see the mixture of confusion, hurt and anger on his face, and remembers with a start that Rachel and Jesse had…

_That can't be why she wants it_, Will thinks, but he feels like he's trying to convince himself out of what seems to be the only possible solution.

"We've already decided this," Kurt declares, "and we will not be arguing over it. There are more important things to worry about. Mr Schue?"

Will shuffles through the papers till he finds the next one.

"With the passing of Proposition 8, we're going to have to expect a flood of political refugees from the Sun Kingdoms, most of whom will want to settle in the Low Lands…"

* * *

><p>"Santana, you can't get out of bed!"<p>

"Really?" Santana retorts as Blaine stands in front of her, trying to stop her from…well, getting out of bed.

"Yes!"

She raises an eyebrow before crouching down swiftly, hand whipping out to slam into Blaine's kneecap.

_Hard_.

As he falls to the floor, howling in pain, she steps over him, 'accidentally' treading on his leg (his knee, really, but who cares about technicalities?) as she does so.

"_Fucking hell Santana, you broke my _knee_!_" Blaine screams, voice hoarse with pain, but she ignores him and makes her way over to the long table in the centre of her room.

She has to admit, this is a pretty good room, as far as they go. Not as good as the idiot's, but then Santana's room is just one of many generic guest rooms littering the catacombs of the palace. Despite that, it's large and spacious, and though _she _might not have an adjoining _dining room_, it's certainly more than enough.

She'd die before saying it out loud, but it's a million or two times better than her room in Altha.

"What're you doing?"

There's actual colour in his voice now, which means he's probably stopped wallowing in self-pity and created a pain wall, and started actually reconstructing his knee, bone-shard by bone-shard. For a moment, Santana debates whether or not to feel sorry for Blaine – he _did _swear at her, after all, and Mr I'm-Too-Nice-For-My-Own-Fucking-Good _never _swears – before dismissing the idea almost immediately as idiocy.

Gabriel's done worse, after all; a month ago, Blaine would have had that injury healed in a minute, and would have been grateful she hadn't attacked him with magic instead of her hand.

_Wimp_, she thinks scornfully as, drawing off the heavy red-gold cloth over the thing she's looking for, she lifts what appears to be a large mirror carefully, barely managing to keep from staggering under the weight as she moves towards a smaller desk in the corner of the room, propping the mirror up against the wall.

_I think I'm gong to go home_.

Santana hesitates as she's about to say just that; not because of some magic, or because they're not true, but because, rarely, she doesn't want to hurt Blaine.

But with Prop 8 passed…she's got amnesty anyway, thanks to her blood, but she'd prefer to be in Altha as soon as possible, because the later she goes, the more likelihood that Gabriel will find a way to have her run into an 'accident' on the way back.

Not that it'd _work_, but it would definitely be fucking inconvenient.

_Brittany__..._

_I'll just take her with me_, she thinks, forcing herself to push away images of the other girl laughing with the hobbit and Kinn or Pinn or whatever, giggling as Blaine's sweetheart tickles her, happiness written all over her face...

"Tell me when you've stopped whingeing and come over here, you fool," Santana says, rolling her eyes as she turns around. Blaine grimaces as he pushes himself to his feet – foot, really – leaning against the bed for support as he experimentally puts weight on the knee she shattered. He winces slightly as he does so, but it's a slight enough reaction that Santana simply rolls her eyes again, leaning forward to grab him by the arm and pull him towards the desk.

"What-" Blaine begins, but she slams her hand over his mouth.

"Shut up," Santana says shortly, "I'm trying to concentrate." After she feels him nod beneath her hand, she moves it away, pointedly wiping it on the cloth of the pink – _pink! _– dress that she presumes the hobbit clothed her in (judging by the fact that it's possibly the most hideous thing she's ever seen.) Turning to what would be a mirror but for the dark, metallic face that reflects nothing, Santana takes a deep breath.

She knows she shouldn't be using magic of this kind and strength straight after, despite what she's told Blaine, effectively sending herself into death without actually dying. As she concentrates on the flow of her blood, she feels the erratic beat of her heart.

_How much should I bet that this is not going to go well…?_

But everything has a price, even information, and Santana knows there's something about Proposition 8 that's got to be more than what Blaine's been told – or at least, what he's telling her.

Besides, when Blaine had muttered those words under his breath – _Compulsion, compulsion, compulsion_ – this time, there had been none of the taint of blood magic, nor the magical disturbance that a seer carries around with them (Santana remembers with a pang that she doesn't know what happened to Brittany afterwards.)

This time, though, the Compulsion cut clean, and Santana keeps finding her throat locking and her neck muscles keeping her head rigidly facing away from Blaine even as the words come to her mind.

_This is _not _good_. She needs to find a way to tell him, and quickly, and she can think of only two people who can help her with that.

Plus, it's 7pm, which makes it 9:30pm back home and Santana might be a bitch, but she keeps her appointments.

She inhales deeply, feeling her magic rise from her bones and inner core to settle just over her skin.

"_Saya nelva esla rai, sono almoni maerae_," Santana chants slowly, letting the Old Tongue, syllables rich with potent and latent magic, roll from her mouth almost musically. She can sense Blaine's curiosity and fights to stop herself from turning around reflexively to see his expression; the magic in the Scrying Glass has been activated but not sealed, and she knows that as soon as the thread breaks – as it will when she's done anyway – she'll be gone for at _least_ another week, if she's lucky.

And dying isn't fun, even when it's on one's own terms, so she concentrates even harder, blocking out Blaine.

"_Lima ostensca lieri, saya Altha_…"

* * *

><p>After next chapter, KLAAINE! Yay! No more (or much less) of the confusing plot that no one understands!<p>

Quickly: Compulsion works on a series of conditions. Eg. Gabriel's condition to wipe everyone's memories might have been 'when I do a pirouette, everyone apart from me will forget about this rather awkward incident' - the pirouette is the trigger. Triggers are often words because words are powerful but they need to be words of significance - _Compulsion_, for example. And _love_. Love is a good one.

I actually think it's highly doubtful whether I'll update before leaving on Sunday, though I might end up giving in and updating at New Caledonia (hopefully not because I really want to enjoy the uniqueness of NC.) Either way, see you next time!

Love, Zayre


	10. Blood Will Tell

**A/N: **I'm actually so sorry about this chapter. It's very...

Ahem. Anyway, this is the last chapter of the first arc. From now on, it becomes much less plot/exposition-heavy and more character-driven. Which is good, because I can tell quite a few of you are sort of wanting some Klaine xD

...however, it means that I've had to cram a whole pile of really badly-explained stuff into this. If you need any clarification, feel free to ask me in a review, message or on tumblr (link on my profile).

The majority of latter half is not really in chronological order, and this is on purpose. If you are confused, it's because I actually have no idea of what's happening when. SORRY )=

Also, thank you to whoever sent me that Tumblr message - a very perceptive comment that I'm surprised and impressed you picked up on re: Kurt. Also, thank you to **danicadaisy **who wrote me that tumblr rec - hopefully you're a bit more illumined by this chapter! And speaking of tumblr, I'm vaguely contemplating posting the prologue of this story up there...anyone interested in reading it?

**In other news**, I got back from New Caledonia yesterday, after 5 days of heaven - speaking French (which is so much fun/good practice), playing a rather...physical...version of Marco Polo in the pool with some really really cute French guys, learning how to windsurf, snorkeling, and getting tipsy and being kissed by a rather cute guy (=

Downside is that now I'm actually a couple of million shades darker than my natural skin tone, and my foundation is now too pale. But WHATEVER.

Anyhow, enjoy!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 10 - Blood Will Tell<strong>

"…_Altha ostensca lieri, saya Lima maerae._"

"You alright?" Wes murmurs in David's ear – thankfully just as the connection is made, so when he jolts in surprise, the thread doesn't snap.

"Wes…" David says wearily, and Wes, realising what he almost did, starts to apologise; but David sighs, waving the apology away with a shaking hand. He knows Wes means well, really, but this is the _fifth time_.

"Disgusting. You fags _done_?"

"Charmed, Lopez," Wes says dryly, keeping his hand on David's arm as he turns towards the Scrying Glass. Though it's a hot day, hot enough that the cooling charms can only keep the temperatures mild rather than comfortably cold, the warmth of Wes's hand is comforting.

"Wes? _David_?"

Wes obviously manages to keep himself from reacting too obviously (though he does grip David's arm a bit tighter as Blaine appears next to Santana in the large Scrying Glass). David, however, already exhausted from the magic, doesn't have the energy to exercise any sort of restraint.

"_Blaine_!" he exclaims, leaping from his seat. "How are you? How's Lima? Are you alright? We're so _sorry_! Are you-"

Blaine bursts into laughter, and David falters. "Calm down," their friend says, voice warm with amusement. "I'm _fine_, honestly."

And then he bites his lip and David shares a look with Wes that says _he's the worst liar on the continent._

"Blaine, what's wrong?" David asks gently after a moment's silence, but Santana waves her hand dismissively.

"He's a big girl now," she says roughly. Santana's always been a better liar than Blaine – better than them all – but for some reason, the words, strident and dismissive as they are, don't ring true.

"Santana-"

"Hey, Blaine," Santana interjects. "Go away."

"Wait, what-"

"He's alive! Isn't that wonderful? Now go away, before I break your knee again. This conversation is for _grown-ups_."

Blaine's expression becomes stiff and offended, and without another word he turns, Wes and David watching with dismay (and not a little curiosity) as he leaves the viewing range of the mirror.

"You couldn't have given us a minute to, you know, _talk_?" David asks irritably as a door slams in the distance. He's not normally rude to Santana – certainly not after the incident with that dress of hers - but activating a link like that over thousands upon thousands of kilometres is hard.

And besides, it's been at least _three months _since Blaine left Altha. Three months, which isn't that long but Blaine, Wes and David probably haven't spent more than half a day apart since they were first introduced to each other, when Blaine was five and they were seven.

"And you _know _how touchy he is about his age, Santana," Wes chides, as though he's been thinking exactly what David has. "It's not his fault we're all over eighteen and he isn't."

But Santana's shaking her head. "I…may have needed to ask you two for a…favour," she mutters, and now she's got their attention.

"Don't look at me like that!" she snaps, narrowing her eyes at them, before biting her lip. "It's about what Gabriel's-" Santana stops, eyes widening. "What-how-"

"It's because we already know about it," David sighs wearily.

As the room falls silent, Wes moves his hand down David's arm to entwine his fingers through David's.

And then the penny (which David's never understood but whatever) drops.

(Actually, it sort of explodes.)

"_What the fuck is wrong with you fucking idiots_?"

"I'd just like to say," David murmurs into Wes's ear, "that I'm extremely glad that throwing things at a Scrying Glass just makes them vanish."

"Yeah, but that was Santana's favourite corset, wasn't it?" Wes replies with a wince, before cringing as David shoots him a _look_. "Just saying, I'm not putting it past her to demand that we go into the void to get it back for her…"

David, deciding that he'd probably prefer not to think about just _how _Wes knows that, contents himself with another _look _before facing the Glass and closing his eyes, frowning in concentration. Reaching out (with his magic, not his hand), he goes _through _the Glass as if it isn't there, twining Water and Air together, relaxing Santana's limbs and calming her heart rate. Surprisingly, she doesn't fight or acknowledge the magic, screaming slowly dissipating as the adrenaline is scourged from her veins by a carefully light thread of Fire.

Finally, she exhales heavily.

"How long?"

"As soon as his Majesty agreed to our proposition of betrothing Prince Kurt and Blaine, we knew something was up," Wes says quickly.

David nods. "And then as soon as we asked – _bam!_"

"That was the trigger," Wes clarifies. "And after that…well, we were stuck. You wouldn't _believe _how hard it was to continue with the negotiations, to tell Blaine about it…It was all I could do to tell you what I did that morning before you left." David nods reflexively as he thinks back on that morning.

Wes had vomited as soon as they'd finished seeing off Blaine and his retinue – run to their room and vomited, coughing up blood and chunks of a darker substance David doesn't want to think about.

Compulsion is like cancer; the longer it lingers in someone's soul, undiscovered and untreated, the worse it is when it's finally triggered and spreads to control every part of one's body and mind…

It leaves a mark. Wes and David have lived for their whole lives, unprotected.

They're more scarred than a battalion of healers could ever hope to heal….

"And you expect _me _to do something about it?" Santana asks angrily. "You already know I can't, the Compulsion-"

"-is still new on you, Lopez. You can still fight it, we can't. You _have _to. For Blaine."

Suddenly, Santana's face crumples – only for a moment, but enough for them to see before that expressionlessly bitchy mask resurfaces. "It doesn't matter," she shrugs, "because I'm coming back to Altha."

David feels Wes's hand tighten and he bends his head, dipping to scrape Wes's shoulder in a silent reinforcement that he's _really there_, that they're both still alive and _together _.

"Santana," he sighs, standing and moving behind his desk and drawing a piece of paper from the top of a messy, disordered pile of sheets and folders, "that's not going to happen."

Santana's fist clenches. "What the fuck are you talking about?" she snaps, and David feels like, if she were a dog her hackles would be raised, her fur bristling…

"This."

He's about to read but Wes pre-empts him, and David steps back gratefully-

"By the Grace of the Gods, we hereby declare our Santana Lopez, daughter of Alessandra of Karnath and child of Altha, to be exiled from the Confederation of the Sun Kingdoms for her violation of the Proposition 8 recently instigated by our person and our government. May the Gods have mercy on her soul.

Thus is decreed, by I, Gabriel, Head of House Anderson, Reignant of Altha, Over-King of the Confederation of the Sun Kingdoms."

David looks at his feet, and doesn't look up as he feels the connection snap, Scrying Glass turning dark.

"And now?"

David doesn't look up as he moves back to his chair, knowing that he should move the mirror but too tired to.

"Santana's turn."

* * *

><p>Kurt is the most intelligent person he knows, with the possible exception of Rachel.<p>

And so, despite Blaine's wide smiles and innocent eyes, Kurt becomes increasingly more and more sullen as the next few weeks go by, as political refugees begin to slowly make their ways down to Lima's city gates and as the period of amnesty expires.

He knows something is wrong, knows it in the worried glances shot at Santana, in the way that Brittany nuzzles her face into Santana's shoulder the way she does when she can tell someone's not okay but can't figure out why as Santana looks at Blaine's back, eyes hard and a bitter smile curving her lips.

He knows it as Blaine stops smiling at him when their eyes meet from across the dinner table; when gentle barbs and affectionate touches of the arm are replaced by distant formalities that come out half-hearted and weak.

He can't send Blaine back, and he shouldn't want to. _Asmoa Maikteak _is an old tradition and rarely-used for a good reason – it's _hard _to carry through to completion, and Kurt tries to remember that.

Besides, he knows Blaine would never let him dissolve it.

But he does want to.

Especially now, as he sits curled up in his bed (for once, not caring that he's rumpling his clothing something dreadful), rocking backwards and forwards as someone knocks on his door, hard and loud.

"_Kurt_!"

* * *

><p><strong>Ten minutes ago<strong>

Blaine can sense Kurt's irritation as they eat, but he doesn't turn around. He knows the other boy has become more and more annoyed at his behaviour (because Blaine's an open book but that's a good premise to learn how to read other people), but he doesn't…

Doesn't care?

That's not true, he has to admit, because that sinking feeling in his stomach whenever Kurt's eyes harden after Blaine makes a particularly dismissive or caustic comment is fairly hard to ignore. It's getting easier, or perhaps the constant pain is making him numb.

He wants to try, and he did in the week or two after Santana's attack. But he can't now; can barely force that polite smile to his face anymore.

And the fact that Kurt doesn't say anything, just accepts his behaviour, is both heart-warming and grating – as though he's _afraid _to attack Blaine for fear of Gabriel.

_Gabriel_.

"Brothers," Blaine mutters.

Santana, who Blaine's in the process of trying to cross-examine in the vain hope that maybe the Compulsion wasn't as effective or all-encompassing as intended, snorts. "This is why being a bastard is perfect," she says. "Complete denial of family, but they have to look after you; if only for the potential blackmail. You should try it some time."

"I'd love to," he replies instinctively, sarcasm heavy in his tone – but then he reflects.

…_No, I don't think it would have helped._

But it would have been nice, to be away from the responsibility. Santana might be exiled, but blood magic and family obligation means she'll never go poor.

"Blaine." Kurt's voice cuts through his thoughts, hard and sharp, but somehow brittle, like a glass knife. "Could you-"

"Not right now, Kurt," Blaine says, waving his hand dismissively.

"Blaine, _honestly_-"

"_Honestly_," Blaine snaps, "what is your _problem_?"

_I don't care_, he tells himself as Kurt's face crumples, _I've got more important things to worry about_.

And then Kurt stands, and before his footsteps have faded down the corridor Blaine's on his feet, pushing past tables of nobility to follow the other boy.

* * *

><p><strong>Ten minutes later<strong>

"Kurt, please," Kurt hears Blaine say softly, sound somehow penetrating through the thick door, "let me in."

Kurt sighs heavily, staring at the soft satin covering his knees as he bites his lip, staring at the door. As he stands, he looks over to the full-length mirror lining one side of his large, grandiose bedchamber.

Dark blue-green eyes with a dash of glinting silver. Brown-blonde hair still perfectly coiffed despite the mad dash to his chamber and the fingers that he'd run through it; fingers that, right now, are clenched tightly in two fists, rigid by his side.

He looks like Kurt, Prince Regent of the Low Lands.

He looks like Kurt, _Asmoa Maiteak _to Blaine, Prince of the Confederation of the Sun Kingdoms.

Sighing again, his jaw relaxes, fingers uncurling, joints loose.

And now, he looks like Kurt.

Just Kurt.

Reaching forward with a trembling hand, he places his palm against the ancient-but-constantly-renewed wards, feeling layers upon layers of security magic collapse beneath his fingers.

The door vanishes to Blaine's back as the other Prince sinks to the floor, leaning backwards into empty air and barely managing to avoid falling into Kurt's legs.

"Blaine."

* * *

><p>"I'm sorry," Blaine mutters under his breath, gaze averted towards a large bookshelf as he sits uncomfortably by himself on the couch, Kurt gazing steadily at him from the bed where he, cross-legged, is seated.<p>

"I can't imagine why," Kurt asks, words harsh and sharp and the dialect stronger than ever, making Blaine's own words seem slow and insipid in comparison.

_No, you can't_, Blaine thinks snidely before berating himself for the thought.

Because he does understand where Kurt is coming from; he understands how rude he's been, how abrasive and short and arrogant and plain _irritating_.

"I'm sorry," he answers instead of his original retort, and this time the words ring loud and clear, sincere and open, and Kurt looks at him when he speaks, slight surprise and grudging approval in his eyes. "I've been…" He forces himself to continue, "I've been unbearable. You've been more than kind to me; you've done more than you should have, and all I've done…"

"_You're a whiney little brat."_

_Shut up, Gabriel_, but for once Blaine's inner voice is _right_, though he's loath to admit it even to himself. "I'm sorry," he repeats helplessly, wondering just _how _they got to this point. Has he been this bad, over the last couple of weeks as the refugees have started arriving and he and Santana have worried over which of their friends might not make it to the southern border in time…

"Blaine, you know how _Asmoa Maiteak _works, don't you?"

He does, actually – he spends what time he has not worrying about _his people _– because he's still Althan – in the library, researching the strange magics that belong only to the south.

Rather understandably, this one interests him the most.

Kurt bites his lip. "You have to…you have to _want _it."

They both hear the unspoken underlying meaning.

_You have to want _me_._

"I…" Kurt's voice catches. "I like you, Blaine. You're…" he shakes his head, "never mind. But I think this can work. But you can't…"

Blaine sighs.

"I know. And I'm sorry-"

"No," Kurt says, shaking his head. "It's not about being sorry. It's about _this_. It's about _us._"

Blaine frowns slightly, eyes narrowing. "What do you mean?"

"Do you want this?"

Kurt's voice is surprisingly steady, but he looks away as he asks the question, and Blaine's mind races.

Does he want this? Is he going back to the Sun Kingdoms? Kurt is attractive, and intelligent, and hilarious, and Blaine might almost think he's perfect.

_Do I want this_?

Blaine knows the answer to this – he's known it for the last few weeks, though he's spent equal amounts of time trying to convince himself that these things don't come this _easily_, that if Kurt's all of the things Blaine wants, right down to that frustrating naivety that makes Blaine want to protect him from the reality – the cruel reality – of the world, then there's probably something drastically wrong with him.

And yet, as he looks as Kurt…

He opens his mouth, slight smile curving his lips and crinkling his eyes…

"Prince Blaine?"

* * *

><p>Brittany doesn't really understand what's going on, but she doesn't expect to. Ever since the gift came to her, she's been bad with the present, bad with what's going on <em>now <em>as opposed to in twenty years or days or seconds time.

But she knows Santana's hurt, and she knows that there's something she needs to do, no matter what.

"What's the message, Brit?"

That's Kurt's voice, nice and smooth and comforting in a way he never speaks with anyone else.

She smiles vaguely at him. "You can't hear it," Brittany replies patiently, "'Tana said that 'only Blaine-Blaine can hear'." She's fairly impressed with her imitation of Santana but, to her disappointment, Kurt just frowns rather than acknowledging it.

"Alright…" he says, and she can hear hesitance in his voice, as though he doesn't know quite what to do next.

"It's fine." That's _Blaine_, Santana's friend. She likes Blaine – he's gentle and nice, sort of like Kurt but not because Kurt is gentle and nice but also bites hard, hard enough that it hurts even when he doesn't do anything, when he just speaks.

Blaine doesn't bite, but she's almost sure he will after what she has to present to him.

At least, that's what 'Tana said.

Blaine sits for a long time afterwards, replaying the scene.

Over, and over, and over.

And then some more.

* * *

><p>"<em>Alright, hobbit, I've got like three seconds or something before I'll have to stop speaking," Brittany says, sharply, eyes glazed and voice suddenly lower and harsher, biting and raw as Santana's Mimicry spell seizes control of the blonde girl. "Before the Compulsion becomes too strong again, and Brit – fucking hell she's <em>strong_, did you know that? – has to chain me to this ridiculous bed. And no matter what, you have to read the note. I don't give a fuck if you're crying like a girl. You read that note when Brit stops talking."_

* * *

><p>Blaine isn't crying. He's numb instead.<p>

"_Blaine_?"

Almost unconsciously, Blaine flicks his fingers, murmuring a word under his breath; and a soft light surrounds him before fading, even as the hiss of magic wards and the sound of his name fades, captured in the silence net he's activated around him.

So he can't hear Kurt's voice, loud and panicked and confused, as he reads.

* * *

><p>"<em>A package arrived when you and your girl were bitch-fighting. It…" Brittany swallows, and Blaine wonders briefly if it's her who needs to clear her throat, or whether she's just imitating what Santana did.<em>

_It's a fleeting moment of curiosity that vanishes as soon as Brittany speaks again._

"_Sara's dead, Blaine. That fucking son of a bitch sent me her head. She's been executed."_

* * *

><p>Blaine has heard of this (what Santana's somehow, incredibly, managed to do) but he's never seen it in action – he's barely seen anyone manage to push past a Compulsion long enough to even hint that they're under one, let alone directly contravene it.<p>

And so, he reads, words on the page dissolving into runny ink as he finishes them, ink that drips onto the warm carpet of the floor where he stands, only to vanish into nothingness.

Blaine reads, absorbing each word because he can actually feel the Compulsion stretching around him, around his limbs, ready to tighten and constrict the minute he finishes reading.

_It's all my fault_, he reads, but he shakes his head bitterly.

Gabriel didn't do this because of Santana; it was to get to _Blaine_. Gabriel doesn't care enough to hurt Santana like this.

* * *

><p>"<em>I'm sorry, Blaine."<em>

_And with that, Brittany faints._

_With difficulty, Blaine barely manages to suppress the urge to leap from the bed to the blonde girl, instead letting a thread of Air snake around her wrists to feel the steady pulse and the constant rush of blood beneath her skin._

_And then, mechanically, he opens the tightly-folded pieces of parchment, watching as, with a touch of his fingers, words begin to appear slowly, sluggishly, on the pages, ink dark and thick._

_Only when they stop, half-way down the second page, does he begin to read._

* * *

><p>They feel the shift – or at least, Wes knows <em>he <em>does – merely seconds before there's a knock on the door.

"Wes, David? You there?"

Wes doesn't bother responding, instead flicking his hand slightly and feeling more than a little satisfaction when he hears the crunch of a breaking nose as the door swings open quickly.

As Nick stumbles through the entrance, clutching at his bleeding face, David sighs heavily, reaching out in front of him to wrap Water and Air around the injury, moving cartilage and skin as the blood slowly vanishes from their friend's face.

"Really, Wes?" Nick says snidely, nodding slightly in acknowledgement to David.

Wes just shrugs. "What is it?"

Nick holds out a piece of parchment.

"From his Majesty."

* * *

><p>Blaine knows he should have anticipated it; knows he should have <em>known<em>, that Gabriel wouldn't have let him go so easily.

And yet…it's the perfect plan. Double-edged and multi-purpose, and tied up neatly in a string of Compulsions that are never going to break.

He'd like to think

Not for the first time, he wonders where that special streak of _sociopath_ that runs clear through Gabriel's veins comes from. Not from their father, surely, nor from their mother. If he didn't know better, he would have thought that they shared different mothers.

And yet, even Santana and Gabriel are more similar than Blaine and Gabriel. Santana looks like Alessandra of Karnath, though Blaine's not met her more than a few times; but she has eyes the same shape as her father's.

As Blaine's father's.

She and her half-brother share the same eye-colour, a dark brown that somehow contrasts so strongly against Blaine's soft hazel eyes.

Gabriel and Santana even share that same cruel wit and darkness that Blaine only rarely feels, when he's tired and stirred to anger by stupidity or cruelty or-

_Kurt_.

_No_, he tells himself firmly, wincing as he feels the Compulsion start to tighten, inexorably and inevitably. He can't think about Kurt right now.

And then he smiles bitterly, because there's nothing to think about but Kurt.

Kurt, and regret, and anger, and _fear_.

And despair.

Lots of despair.

* * *

><p>Santana's eyes open slowly and painfully, as if someone's placed weights over her eyelids – weights that prick her skin.<p>

She feels her body twitch violently as another wave of agony hits her, and she bites straight through her lip this time (but she doesn't scream, at least.)

Her limbs convulse but this time, rather than hitting the cold metal of chains she'd instructed her blonde lover to wrap around her body, Water caresses her skin and sooths away, for the slightest instant, a bit of the pain.

"Don't try to talk," she hears her idiot of a half-brother whisper, somewhere from the hazy olive blob hovering anxiously over her.

She's Santana Lopez, so she ignores him.

"Dyareeaddenote?"

Because family is like that, he smiles (probably). "Of course."

The olive blob thing moves away from her field of vision, and she hears the faintest noise of the scrape of wood against marble.

"It was clever," Blaine says calmly (too calmly but she doesn't care), taking her hand gently. The feeling of skin against her burning flesh elicits a whimper of pain from her – one that she tries to conceal but can't.

"Sorry," he says quickly, loosening his grip even more. The touch still sears, fiery hot, but she forces herself with every ounce of self-control to not react again.

She knows he probably wants to say more – he probably wants to ask why she hasn't shut down her body to spare herself from the pain. But Blaine doesn't say anything else, and she's grateful.

It's not like it was the last time, with that hobbit prying through her mind; where if she hadn't, then the nosy little bitch might have triggered the wrong end of a Compulsion and left her to die. If she tried to shut down now, she'd die.

Granted, that'd probably be preferable to this seemingly never-ending torment, but Santana tries to remind herself that there are probably things worth living for.

Like castrating Anderson.

Like not seeing Blaine die.

* * *

><p>Blaine stays seated by Santana's bedside till she falls into a fitful doze, and then some more.<p>

_It was clever_, he had said.

It is clever, but Blaine isn't exactly in a position to appreciate it. And the best part is, Gabriel hadn't had to do anything

All he'd had to do is realise just _why _no one from House Anderson _ever _married outside the Confederation.

_Traitor_, the blood magic (or is it just Blaine's imagination?) whispers into his ear as he thinks the word 'marriage'.

_Traitor _is what the warrant, ordering Blaine's return to Altha in the event that he and Kurt don't marry within the next year under suspicion of high treason, calls him.

_Traitor_.

Will that be his epitaph, either way?

* * *

><p>"She's alright," Blaine says with a smile, a wide-eyed smile that contains just enough despair for Kurt to reach out his hand.<p>

He sees the flinch and feels Blaine's trembling forearm beneath his fingers, but he doesn't react. Blaine's explanation earlier, and the sincerity in his voice, had been enough for Kurt-

Blaine pulls away, face expressionless but for a polite smile curving his lips.

"Kurt," Blaine begins, but Kurt turns away.

"_Fine_," he spits, voice harsh and somehow both lower and higher pitched than normal (is that possible?) and he walks away fast enough that he doesn't hear Blaine's knees hit the floor, nor the soft, keening cry of sorrow and despair that arises in the shorter boy's lungs, forcing its way out even as he coughs.

* * *

><p>He's stuck.<p>

He's dead.

A dead man walking, Gabriel would say.

And the best (worst) part is, he can't tell anyone.

No one.

So he smiles, and thinks back over Santana's note and Brittany-Santana's words, and dies a little more inside because he's gone anyway.

* * *

><p><em>Blood magic, Blaine. Screw Compulsion, that's just to make it more <em>fun_, that son of a bitch._

_Excuse me, I'm sure your Mama dear was lovely. She was to me, anyway, never mind that Dad fucked Mum just before your Mum got infected with _you_._

_Clever, isn't it? It eats you alive, he blames your girl – _the _girl, I should say – and…something happens. And we all know what happens_

_I know that's why Sara died – so I could tell you, in this moment where I don't give a _fuck _that I feel like someone's set me on fire from the inside._

_I know that's why he did it, but I don't care._

_I don't care, because somehow, we're going to do something. _

_We've got a year._

_And we're going to beat that fucking bastard._

_Somehow._

_I'm sorry, Blaine._

_Santana._

Kneeled on the floor of the corridor as Kurt slams the door of his room shut, Blaine rocks back, raising his head to stare at the ceiling.

"I like you," Blaine says, still staring upwards. "And so, till I fix this – or till I die – I'm sorry. Because I like you, Kurt. "

"And you're never going to hear me say it."

* * *

><p><em>Wes clenches his fist around the note, crumpling those two words in the King's elegant cursive handwriting till he can't make out the letters.<em>

_David buries his face in his hands. "Your move," he whispers. "Our move."_

_Wes bites his lip, before opening his hand again. The wad of parchment rises slowly into the air, and Wes raises his hand._

_Fire engulfs the parchment, burning through it almost instantaneously, and through the rain of ash, Wes steps forwards to take David's chin in his hand, their eyes meeting._

"_Our move," Wes repeats, eyes filled with determination. "Then we make it a good one. For Blaine."_

_David stares at him steadily, before nodding slowly._

"_For Blaine."_

**End Part 1 of Exaltation of the Morning Rose**

* * *

><p>Like I said, a rather choppy chapter. I'm not too pleased but honestly, it will get better after this xD or at least more clear.<p>

Incidentally, did you think that's all the plot there is?

Because if you do, then think again xD

**[EDIT: I feel like a sadist but honestly, you should see the grin on my face at your confusions/comments. You're all asking the right questions, and I'm so glad you're thinking. This isn't an easy story - there are clues peppered here and there that are just going to be befuddling till the key climax. **

**I'll just briefly go over a couple of things that have been fairly common questions - but I'm not giving too much away here so if you want more, you'll have to ask:**

**1. Santana is Blaine and Gabriel's half-sister, so she's bound by the same blood/loyalty magic as Blaine is to Gabriel.**

**2. Gabriel is NOT completely evil. He's going to seem that way for a while, but he's not. Note Wes's violent action and the sort of common pattern in Santana and Gabriel - violence is very much part of the Sun Kingdoms; they spent all their time at war before being united by Blaine's great-great-greatxsomething grandfather.**

**3. All you need to really know right now is that either way, Blaine is pretty much sentenced to die. Think about the political implications if Blaine were to mysteriously die while in the Low Lands.**

**Et, j'ai fini.**

**ALSO, I've actually written out the entirety of what Santana-Brittany says to Blaine, and the letter. Do you guys want that in the next chapter, where I can reply to comments in more detail? It will de-crypticise this whole thing.]**

Questions/comments are appreciated, and thanks for reading!


	11. Intermezzo no1  Santana Speaks

**AN: **Hello, my dear peeps!

So basically, enough people asked me to post the letter/speech that...well, I'm doing it. It basically answers a lot of questions that I've already been asked and have answered to reviewers. It also gives you guys something to read till I'm sufficiently mentally prepared to undertake the next part of Exaltation xD.

I'll keep this preamble short because the end one is going to be a lot longer - please read it, and if you can answer any questions I might end up asking.

Just a quick thank you before we get started: to **HarmonyLover, Arcelia, AphraelFT, klaineout, arya, tic tac toe 3, TommyZoom, aridnie, pinkvegpixie, catiescarlett, amethyst-unicorn****, and LiVeLaUgHlOvE24 - **I appreciate all reviews very very muchly but I especially appreciate the consistency of you guys. It's lovely and encouraging and I always love hearing from you guys xD Thank you very muchly!

Anyway, here we go. I hope you are enlightened/decrypticised, and sorry again for my confusing writing!

* * *

><p><strong>Intermezzo no.1 - Santana Speaks<strong>

The Mimicry sets in quickly but jerkily, without Santana's usual finesse.

"Alright, hobbit, I've got like three seconds or something before I'll have to stop speaking. Before the Compulsion becomes too strong again, and Brit – fucking hell she's strong, did you know that? – has to chain me to this ridiculous bed. And no matter what, you have to read the note. I don't give a fuck if you're crying like a girl. You read that note when Brit stops talking. No matter what.

Fucking hell, I don't even know why I'm talking. Maybe because I want you to know it's me? Maybe because _I _want to know this is me.

I broke it. I actually did it. I actually beat Anderson for once.

Hurts like hell, but who gives a crap?

Anyway, you're probably wondering _how_ I managed to break it, right? Don't get sentimental, it wasn't because I _love _you or anything, or I give a fuck. It's…A package arrived when you and your girl were bitch-fighting. It…"

There's a harsh exhale, one that sounds more like a sob than anything.

"Sara's dead, Blaine. That fucking son of a bitch sent me her head. She's been executed. Sara's dead. Funny that. I can't imagine her dead. She's too _nice _to be dead, if you get what I mean? I mean, of course you would.

Anyone who knew her would.

That fucking…I'm going to kill him. One day. I'm going to watch him _burn_, and I'm going to fucking _laugh_. _Laugh_, you hear me, Anderson?

And that's why I'm doing this."

Brittany coughs, suddenly – a harsh, racking cough.

"Shit. I can feel it. I am _never _doing this again. I hate to say it, but brother dead is strong. Stronger than me, anyway. So I'm just gonna shut up now. Happy reading. And…"

The blonde girl sighs.

"I'm sorry, Blaine."

* * *

><p>Blaine stares at the page unseeingly till he feels the light hum of magic on parchment vanish, and sees that the words have stopped.<p>

And then he reads.

_I did some reading (I know, right? I can read. Brilliant. Just fucking brilliant.) Did you know that no one from your – our – family's ever married outside of Althan nobility?_

_At least, not since the end of the Great Wars._

_You know what else I read up on, hobbit?_

_That marriage _thing _Hummel or whatever your kid's name is cast on you. I am _so _glad we don't have that back home (not that it's going to make a difference because we're never going back.) It's actually stronger than an engagement bind, did you know?_

_And it'll be enough to trigger the blood magic. Or loyalty magic. Or whatever the hell this falls under._

_And you know what triggers whatever-it's-called?_

'I love you.'

_You can't say that to him. _

Ever_. I've seen the way you look at him when you think I'm not watching, when you think he's not watching (though he's probably too busy stuffing more gel into his hair to watch you anyway.)_

_But you are not saying those words. You are _never _letting him know how you feel, ever, because I know he's probably going to spill out all his innermost lovey-dovey feelings about your ridiculous hair and sort of vomit-inducing eyes and then it's _all up to you_._

_So you are not saying those words._

_Why? _

_Because if you do, I am going to fucking resurrect you, and then throw you straight back into hell. Do you understand?_

I am not letting you die.

_Never_.

Blaine laughs shortly.

"Really, Santana?" he mutters softly, soundwaves catching slightly on wards and magic, both dormant and awakened, that hang in the air. "Really?"

He bends his head down and starts to read again.

_Fucking hell, we've been looking at this whole thing the wrong way around. It wasn't about an alliance. It wasn't about never having to see you again, or you never having to see him again._

_Either way, he gets something different, you know. Reparations – maybe even a reason for war, and you know as well as I do that your girl wouldn't be able to put up more than two seconds worth of _fight_. Or you're dragged back up north._

_And he cuts off your pretty little head like he did Sara, and everyone learns that messing with King Gabriel just isn't on._

_But either way, he gets what you probably know by now he wants._

_You dead._

_Fucking sadist._

_Blood magic, Blaine. Screw Compulsion, that's just to make it more _fun_, that son of a bitch._

_Excuse me, I'm sure your Mama dear was lovely. She was to me, anyway, never mind that Dad fucked Mum just before your Mum got infected with _you_._

_Remind me again, how the fuck are we related to Anderson? Better yet, how are _you _related to him? Me, I have Mum to make me sane. But you? Or maybe it's the other way around – you had me to keep _you _in your place, and the douchebag…_

_Whatever._

_One thing I know I've got in common with him is that we're both._

_Fucking._

Clever_._

_Because clever, isn't it? It eats you alive, he blames your girl – _the _girl, I should say – and…something happens. And we all know what happens. And if anyone actually finds out, it's not actually his fault._

_Because it won't be._

_I know that's why Sara died – so I could tell you, in this moment where I don't give a _fuck _that I feel like someone's set me on fire from the inside. _

_Or maybe it was an accident. Maybe he's just a class-A douchebag and there's nothing anyone can do about it._

_I don't care._

_I don't care, because somehow, we're going to do _something_. _

_We've got a year._

_And we're going to beat that fucking bastard._

_Somehow._

_I'm sorry, Blaine._

_Santana._

* * *

><p><strong>Here is your summary for Part 1, and your setup for Part 2: <strong>

Blaine is sort of trapped, and not just because either way he dies; in order to buy himself that year, he needs to keep Kurt thinking something will happen between them (because as we saw last chapter, Kurt is considering dissolving the agreement) to stop him from being returned. At the same time, he absolutely can't get himself pinned down to confessing his feelings.

Kurt is trying to run a country, is being besieged politically, and is freaked out that the one thing he thought might be good - his relationship with Blaine - is not going well. And that means also that he doesn't have the political surety of a northern ally, leaving him sort of terrified that the Low Lands might be Sue's next target.

Santana is also sort of trapped, not only because she's stuck down in the south now but also because she's well aware she's being used by Gabriel as a pawn to hurt Blaine. And she can't do anything about it.

Wes and David are just trying to do what they can though they don't know how much of anything Gabriel knows, and they don't know how much they _can _do.

Rachel is a lot more perceptive than you'd think.

Gabriel...lol. Just lol. Gabriel is not another Voldemort. And that's possibly what makes him even more dangerous. Also, his plans have only just started (because honestly, did you really expect that this was it?)

**Here is a sort of vague hint of what's coming:**

Wes and David get stuck in more shit. Jesse and Quinn both appear, making for awkward moments. Kurt and Blaine both dance around each other in this lovely mesh of misunderstandings and unsaid feelings, while allowing for some ridiculously 'ngaaaw' moments. We learn more about Kurt. A LOT more about Kurt. And a guest character makes a surprise appearance.

**My questions:**

I'd just like to inform you guys that I've got 5 pages of horribly-scrawled notes on this story, detailing the whole plot. I'm about...oh, not quite through the first page? So **question 1: do you guys want me to cut out plot/world expansion in favour of Klaine stuffs/faster ending?** There's already going to be a lot more Klaine from now onwards. What do you think?

**Question 2: ****are there any other pairings/characters you're interested in having explored/expounded/developed?**

Anyway, that's it from me (for now). Please feel free to leave me any thoughts/questions, either through or tumblr. I always love replying (=

Love, Zayre


	12. Books

**AN:** Ooookay this is a ridiculously choppy chapter. In my vague defence it's past midnight here and I wrote most of this chapter during a 9 hour train ride and I just want to get it out. I WILL EDIT LATER.

(...maybe.)

So basically: I have realised that I cannot write romance. At all. I don't know why. I think I just suck at it. I don't know. So yes. If you think that my stuff seems off/strange/...stupid...PLEASE TELL ME. This is an art I'm determined to master (or at least pass).

Also, I uploaded the short story I wrote that Exaltation is sort of based on - it's called 'Of Frost Roses and Orange Trees' and you can find it on my account. Please do check it out (plus it has very vague spoilers!)

Re: Gabriel's potential evil; last chapter or something I said he wasn't like Voldemort. That's because, though I love Harry Potter, I can't help but find the idea of someone who's absolutely evil to be a bit trite. Yes, by the standards of society, Gabriel would be called 'evil'. But there are reasons.

There was more I wanted to say in this but I am so tired I can't actually remember.

Anyway, thank you so much to everyone who reviewed/sent in questions - I love answering your questions/explaining stuff (as evidenced by responses that probably read like bad essays) and please don't hesitate to ask! Also, thank you to the people who reviewed to tell me they're enjoying this story - you should actually see my expression when I read those things.

Enjoy!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 12 - Books<strong>

_We've got a year._

_And we're going to beat that fucking bastard._

_Somehow._

_I'm sorry, Blaine._

_Santana._

**One month later…**

Blaine's always been good at reading and research, if only because the Althan royal library, with its convoluted, labyrinthine design, had always been the best place to hide from Gabriel. Of course, there'd always been the stables (Santana's preference) but Blaine had never been good with dirt.

So he'd never minded the long, sometimes tedious process of sifting through reference book after reference book, through scholarly essays.

Now though…

It could just be the orange tree, wrapped in layers of a clear, strange material that the gardener (whose name Blaine is never going to remember) called _plastic_.

_Plastic_.

Blaine shakes his head. They do manufacture materials up north, but generally these materials are magic-based and intended largely for combat.

In any case, though Blaine spends the majority of free time now in this greenhouse, it doesn't do much to improve his mood. Staring at the tree, leaves and fruit barely visible under the _plastic_, merely reminds him rather painfully of how clichédly similar he and the tree are…

_Stop it_, he tells himself, but without much hope that his mind will actually obey.

Shaking his head again, he starts to read.

'_**The governmental and governing magics of our times: Blood magic and its place in the modern era of the Confederation of the Sun Kingdoms**_

_Blood magic is a societal fixture of the Sun Kingdoms, and serves as a unifying force for six formerly self-governed kingdoms and ten provinces. Blood magic is intrinsic to the continued tentative peace – or, at the very least, lack of continued war – between the main kingdoms of Altha. Instituted after the rise of Reignant Arel of Altha after his victory at the conclusion of the Great Wars, these magics are as ancient in origin as they are potent and far-reaching._

_In this work, the author aims to cover the…'_

"Fuck," Blaine mutters under his breath, but even the expletive sounds as weary as he now feels constantly; "Just _fuck_." He reads on, but like he'd thought, the book is like everything else he's already tried; scholarly and completely, utterly useless.

Dropping the heavy reference book to the floor non-too-gently, Blaine leans back in his chair, glaring at whatever catches his eye – right now, the unfortunately-innocuous orange tree, which Blaine is suddenly tempted to set on fire.

He resists, if only because Santana would have his head and then some, and he's putting too much effort into staying alive to die at the hands of his bastard half-sister.

"_Fuck_,"

"Blaine, language."

The Compulsion, laid nicely dormant for the past week or so since the last time it had been agitated, seizes Blaine's limbs and magic; a foot kicks the book under his chair while the lightest tendril of Air settles over the front cover. Blaine's become accustomed enough to this that he can almost figure out the title now reading on the cover; something to do with flora and fauna of Lima.

All of this as he turns casually in his seat, standing and bowing formally.

"Queen Carole," he murmurs politely. "What brings you here?"

As he looks up, Carole shudders. "Must you, dear?" she asks almost plaintively, and he can't help but smile.

Carole is a rock; a veritable stone sans moss in the snowy, treeless, landless world of Blaine's head; something he clings to when the avalanche of sheer _stuff _gets too much to handle.

(Kurt's the snow; sometimes fun, sometimes terrifying, and just a little bit uncomfortable for someone who still can't stop thinking of his home as being where the sun meets the land.)

"Sorry," he apologises lightly, but she waves her hand dismissively, moving to sit down on the floor of the greenhouse.

"Carole…" Blaine sighs, but he's already sat down on the chair.

Carole finds him here more and more often, nowadays; sometimes reading, sometimes staring at the orange tree. Unlike other people (Kurt) though, she doesn't ask him what's wrong; she doesn't treat him like a strange specimen from another world.

She reminds him of his mother, though they looked nothing alike. Where Idara was tall (taller than he is now, something that rankles with him) and looked…in fact, looked like an older, female version of Gabriel (minus the coldness in Gabriel's eyes, the same brown of Santana's and James's )…Carole is shorter than Blaine, with pale skin and round, soft features.

But Carole has that same gentle compassion and empathy that his mother had – and that constant shadow of pain, lurking in the depths of Carole's blue eyes just as frighteningly as it had been in Idara's green-hazel gaze.

_Eurgh_.

Carole makes Blaine miss Idara, but in a gentle, wistful way as opposed to the painful ache that sometimes grips him and refuses to let go for hours.

"So what are you doing?" Carole asks curiously, and Blaine smiles and shrugs, reaching down to hand her the book – which, like he'd thought, reads '_A Beginner's Guide to Liman Flora and Fauna_'.

"It sounds lovely," Carole says diplomatically. "A bit dry, but lovely."

"Oh, it is," Blaine mutters, shooting a glare at the book that, for once, the Compulsion doesn't freeze before his muscles have even begun moving.

"So what made you decide to read this wonderful piece of literature?"

"Err."

He searches his brain frantically for something, hoping desperately that the Compulsion might prove useful for _once_.

But, in true Gabriel style, Blaine feels no helpful surge of magic, rising to seize control of him from where it lies dormant in his bones.

"Err…I just really want to learn about Lima," Blaine improvises, "you know. For Kurt."

Carole smiles; but to his surprise, it's not the open, unguarded smile he's so used to. This one is slightly wary, and Blaine realises with a sudden sinking feeling that he knows _exactly _what she's going to ask him.

"Blaine, that's…actually what I wanted to talk about."

Blaine freezes again. _Shit_. "What do you mean?" he asks, trying to keep his voice calm and breathing steady.

Carole sighs, smile leaving her face, and suddenly Blaine realises that there are too many lines on her face for her age; lines of worry and stress, and if he were a Healer he'd try and do something about it but he's not, and besides he's only known her for less than two months but…

"Blaine," her voice cuts into his internal rant, "you've been here for almost two months."

"And?" _Please don't say it_.

"Well…" She hesitates. "Well, Kurt – we – _I _– was wondering if…well…"

_They run through the corridors, giggling like children – not from amusement but from sheer happiness and wonder, like it's the first and not the tenth time they've seen West Side Story._

_(Of course, it is the first time they've seen it _together_.)_

First but not last_, Blaine finds himself hoping._

"_Honestly, her _expression _when she…" Kurt's words cut off again as he starts to laugh, a delighted, open sound that echoes around Blaine's room as he sits cross-legged on Blaine's bed, normally-pale cheeks flushed with laughter and excitement._

_Blaine starts to laugh as well, but then Kurt's eyes, bright and sparkling, open wide, and he stops._

_For a moment, Kurt doesn't notice – but then he sees that Blaine isn't smiling anymore (just staring) and the laughter halts suddenly – too suddenly._

"_Is something wrong?" Kurt asks, and somehow those eyes widen even more, a mixture of concern and trepidation filling them._

_Blaine can feel the tears but still, he's somewhat surprised when Kurt slips gracefully from the bed, stepping forward to run his long fingers over Blaine's cheek, the hand soft and smooth and comfortingly cool. He feels the moisture smudge against his skin, and raises a hand to his other cheek, feeling the tears but not moving to wipe them away._

"_I just…"_

_He doesn't know. He doesn't know why looking at Kurt, laughing and happy and sparkly-eyed and red-cheeked, cloak collar messy and glossy hair mussed from its usual coiffed perfection, makes him feel so suddenly desolate and _alone_._

_But he knows one thing. _

_Of course, he's painfully aware that after this he's going to have to step away and back down again; that this is going to ruin three weeks' worth of careful smiles and not-getting-too-close-because-I-don't-want-to-die._

_But right now, he just opens his mouth._

"_You look beautiful tonight," Blaine whispers._

It's been a week since that night, and since then, Blaine hasn't been alone with Kurt for more than five minutes.

He knows it was stupid, that he should have been more careful – but sometimes, it's so hard to _not like_ _Kurt_.

"I know what you want to say. I do. I just…I don't know," Blaine says with a sigh, looking beseechingly up at Carole. "Please just make him realise that I need time. There's still ten months left, right? Almost a year?"

Carole shakes her head. "Oh, sweetheart," she murmurs gently as she stands, hand resting lightly, briefly, on Blaine's knee for support. "You don't understand."

_Understand what? _ Blaine stands as well, remembering at the last minute to pick up the book from where he'd placed it on the floor. "What do you mean?" he asks, suddenly anxious.

"Sweetheart," Carole says softly, "just remember. The magic might wait a year. But that doesn't mean Kurt will."

* * *

><p><strong>Altha:<strong>

"_Fuck!_"

Wes barely dodges the long barrel-like stream of fire in time, not even bothering to throw up any sort of shield as he darts away, turning and sprinting through the forest. He can feel sticks and splinters digging into his bare feet and sharp branches poking and whipping and slashing his skin, but he ignores the pain.

"Close call, much?"

"Shut up, David," Wes growls, even as he automatically turns sideways as he moves through two trees to give David room to squeeze past with him. They run out together in a large clearing; a meadow, with a small, narrow stream of sparkling, clear water cutting the clearing almost perfectly in half.

"Water?" David asks, but Wes shakes his head.

"No time," he gasps. "Let's just do this."

They pivot as a crash sounds behind them.

"_Seriously_?" Wes hears David sigh just before he raises both hands instinctively, already weaving Air and Fire though he knows that it won't do anything to stop the tree-

Fingers grab his forearm roughly and Wes is pulled to the ground, just avoiding the heavy branch that falls with a thud barely a few centimetres from his left leg.

"Thanks," he gasps, flashing what he hopes is a grateful smile at David before pushing himself painfully to his feet, trying in vain to ignore the tree's worth of splinters that are probably cheerfully making their way through his bloodstream.

"Don't mention it," David replies, and Wes is vaguely glad that, saviour or not, his best friend's breathing is just as heavy as his.

At the very least, it means that if they're going to die, they'll die together…

Another tree falls, and the pair step backwards, then again, not stopping till they reach the back of the clearing.

"Are you ready?" Wes murmurs, glancing at David. David's dark skin is scratched and bruised; a long scar reaching from the left side of his forehead to the middle of his right ear drips blood down his cheek and neck, slowly and sluggishly.

"You're not too bad-looking yourself," David murmurs, and Wes realises that David is looking right back at him.

"Are you ready?" Wes repeats with a slight smile.

David sighs. "Always."

And then, as another tree crashes to the ground, sending daisy petals fluttering into the air, the dragon stumbles into the clearing.

* * *

><p>Rachel stomps her foot on the ground. To her annoyance, the floor (being covered in carpet) doesn't echo; but Finn flinches as though it did, and that's all that really counts.<p>

"Jesse is here."

"Um. Well not _here _here, but he's going to be here – so I didn't _really _lie to you," her husband adds in a rush.

"Right." She inhales deeply. "_Why _is he here?"

Finn's expression brightens somewhat, as though this is a question he can actually answer. "The treaty," he explains. "You know, the-"

"Protective alliance," Rachel finishes impatiently, "I know, Finn. It _was _my idea."

And that's the problem. Never mind their…_past_…with Jesse; it's _her _job to deal with him and while Finn's protectiveness and jealousy is cute and sort of hot, right now it's just…

She tries to shake off the thought.

"Whatever," Rachel says tiredly. "Let's go meet him."

* * *

><p>Kurt used to like Jesse, though not so much when he was Mr Schue's new favourite after he joined their study group about two years after the rest of them. But after Kurt had understood that Mr Schue was never going to like Kurt anyway, he began to appreciate Jesse's irreverent humour, ridiculous outlook on the world, and (guiltily) his treatment of both Finn and Rachel.<p>

Right now though…

"Wonderful…" Jesse whispers almost reverently and Kurt bites his lip. "Just _amazing_…"

This time, Kurt almost bites straight through his lip as Jesse runs his fingers lightly along Blaine's bare forearm (why on earth isn't Blaine wearing a proper _shirt_?) and with difficulty, manages to stop from punching the other boy in the jaw.

"Thank you," Blaine says pulling away in a sort of slow, awkward trying-not-to-be-offensive way, and Kurt is somewhat gratified to see a sort of wild confusion in those hazel eyes.

"Simply…" Jesse shakes his head, seemingly overcome by Blaine in a way that annoys Kurt as much as it seems to be freaking out Blaine.

The fact that it's freaking out Blaine is comforting, but _still_.

Finally, after what seems like a life-time of Jesse gaga-eying Blaine, Jesse sighs heavily.

"Finn," Jesse says coolly to Kurt's step-brother when he finally stops staring intensely at Blaine with those eyes that Kurt used to think attractive but now is comparing unfavourable to those of a stoned fish, "did you know how extraordinarily amazingly wonderful it always is to see your face? Don't get me wrong, I don't actually like you because I think the world would split in half if that paradox of you and positive feelings from _anyone_,let alone me, ever actually happened; but it's so heartening to know that no matter how bad life is, at least I'm not you."

Jesse turns from Finn as the taller boy frowns, trying to process the fast speech, and faces Rachel.

Perhaps it was Blaine's discomfort that's making Kurt think that this might end well, and maybe it's a bad idea; but Kurt takes advantage of the fact that everyone's attention is invariably drawn to the always-hilarious St Finchel saga to step forwards, bending very slightly to whisper in Blaine's ear.

"How's being traumatised?" Kurt murmurs, and from where he stands, he sees Blaine's lips curve very slightly.

"Still there," Blaine whispers back, and to Kurt's slight disappointment the shorter boy turns to meet his eyes, stepping away in the process. "Sorry, but…_what _just happened? I couldn't tell if he was hitting on me or worshipping me."

_Probably both_, Kurt thinks. _I _hate _bisexual guys. And girls. But mostly guys. _Aloud, he says, "Jesse's a Sensitive. His Talent, specifically, is Shielding; but he can sense magical strengths."

Though Blaine isn't as close to Kurt as before, they're still standing closer than they've been in a week, and Kurt lets himself enjoy it.

"And…?" Blaine asks, apparently not seeing the connection.

Kurt shrugs. "Apparently you're impressive. And Jesse isn't good at giving compliments, so either it was the tall, dark and handsome thing you've got going on, or you're at _least _as strong as him."

Kurt's careful to keep his tone flippant and teasing but to his dismay he sees the slightest shadow cross Blaine's face before he shrugs back. "I don't know," Blaine says. "I've never really thought of myself as particularly strong – though that might have just been because Gabriel is so ridiculously powe…"

Blaine trails off suddenly, eyes widening.

"Wait."

Kurt frowns. "Yes?"

"What did you say about St James?"

"Which part?" Kurt asks, somewhat confused by Blaine's sudden intenseness.

"About his Talent?"

Kurt's eyes narrow. "That he's a Shielder?"

Something flickers in Blaine's eyes – something strange and incomprehensible that Kurt can't quite mange to put a finger on…

…and then it's gone, and Blaine smiles widely, openly. "That's so cool," Blaine enthuses, and Kurt raises an eyebrow, ready to make some sort of cutting remark. "I mean," Blaine continues, "he seems like a rather horrible person who finds the misery of other people – or at least, Finn – to be _fun_, but that's a pretty awesome Talent. And a Sensitive? I can't even _imagine _how cool that would be."

Despite himself, Kurt can't help but smile. "Apparently he can tell what people's Talents are as well," Kurt says, and Blaine's eyes widen in amazement.

"Kurt, we're going back to our room, okay?"

Kurt acknowledges Rachel's words with the briefest of nods, too busy trying to keep up with the tumble of words coming from Blaine's mouth as they walk down the corridor to Blaine's room, and the _thing _that had caught his attention before sinks to the bottom of his mind, pushed aside for a later that might never happen.

* * *

><p><strong>Altha:<strong>

In the end, it's more long, steady work than a desperate battle to bring down the dragon; she (David can tell by the pale, blue-diamond-coloured scales) is fairly young, and though the first hour or two of frantic running around and trying not to be burnt to a crisp is suitably terrifying, after a while she loses her energy fairly quickly.

It's Wes who delivers the deciding blow; an aether-coated blade, driven straight through the dragon's skull, cutting through bone and muscle and scale and flesh with a sickening _crunch!_

As she falls, a final burst of flame and blood surging from a mouth that screams pain and fear, David reaches into that gaping hole and stabs downwards and forwards; down her throat and slicing her trachea. He barely manages to get his hand out (blade still inside) as she convulses one final time, teeth snapping closed and open.

And then, with one final shuddering gasp for air that only manages to send another spurt of blood straight into the air, the clearing falls silent.

Wes and David don't even bother finding an area of the clearing that's not covered in dragon's blood before they collapse to the ground, arms locked around each other in a tight embrace. David can feel Wes's body shake as he breathes, and maybe it's the blood (both theirs and the dragon's) that's covering their faces, but David fancies he feels dampness against his bare skin and tattered remnants of his shirt that still cling to his shoulder.

Finally, he feels Wes raise his head. "This is disgusting," Wes mutters. "We are covered in _blood_. And it's not even our _own_. It's not even _human_. Just…eww."

David laughs shakily. "Trust you to care about that more than the fact that you've been stabbed in the leg by a dragon's claw."

Wes grumbles something into David's shoulder, a mush of incoherent sounds.

"…_Pardon_?"

Once again, Wes lifts his head; but this time, he's looking down at David, and his eyes are unfathomable and intense. "I love you," he whispers, words soft as a butterfly's touch.

David swallows, face still pressed into Wes's shoulder, and really he shouldn't be wanting to cry but they just killed a dragon and that'll probably serve as an excuse later.

"Wes, I-"

Slow, loud applause rings out in the clearing, and David is cut off mid-sentence.

Fairly quickly for two people who've almost been killed by a rampaging animal, they almost leap to their feet.

"Your Majesty," they say in unison as they bow, not daring to raise their heads till the other man steps forwards, light touch to their heads signalling permission for them to raise their heads.

"Well done, gentlemen," the King says with a warm smile that curves his lips and exposes his teeth (and David tries not to look at Gabriel's eyes, into those dark cold eyes that look too much like Santana's gone wrong for David's liking). "I'm most impressed. Once again, you've proven yourselves worthy of sitting on the King's Council. It only took you…three hours? Impressive. I think you might have set a new record, in fact."

_Yes, well, I would have been marginally more satisfied if we didn't have to do this in the first place._

_Blaine owes us _so _much_, David thinks sourly, even as he smiles, forcing gratification and modest pride to show in his eyes.

"I shall see you at the re-initiation tomorrow morning," the King continues, smile remaining steady and fixed. "I trust you will be on time?"

They both nod quickly, and Gabriel smiles wider. "Wonderful."

"Ah, your Majesty," David says quickly, as the King turns to leave. The tall (too tall, considering how short Blaine is) man stops but doesn't turn.

"Yes?"

"I…ah…" David turns to Wes, eyes pleading. Wes only holds his gaze for a few moments before sighing.

"We would like to think that we have sufficiently proven ourselves fit to sit on the Council, your Majesty," Wes says politely. "We would request that you prove lenient in allowing us exemption from the next tests…?"

Gabriel turns, and though a slight smile still touches his lips, David barely manages to refrain from recoiling at the absolute emptiness in the large eyes.

"I must, my dear men, repeat what I have said at Council meetings since my coronation as Reignant and Over-King," Gabriel says, and though his voice isn't loud, it echoes through the clearing and, jarringly and gratingly, against David's mind. "If you were to swear the Oath – as have the majority of the Council – then I of course would be more than pleased to grant you this exemption. Or is it that you've changed your minds…?"

David shakes his head slowly, with the appropriate amount of contrite wavering on his face.

"Well then," the King sighs, "I'm afraid there's little I can do. Till the meeting, gentlemen."

As the King turns away once more, Wes rolls his eyes in David's direction. David, shocked but amused, shakes his head in admonition.

"Oh, and one more thing?"

"Yes, your Majesty?" Wes says just a smidgeon too quickly, and David cringes.

Gabriel turns again, looking around the clearing with the slightest frown.

"_Do_ clean up all this mess, will you?"

They wait till they feel the slight surge of raw magic that resonates with Teleportation before looking at each other and sighing.

"Blaine owes us?" David asks sardonically as he begins to dissolve and transmute blood particles into Water that soaks straight into the ground.

Wes looks at his blade. Aether is very much the love-child of metal and sponges; and like any sponge, it's taken to the dragon blood like the King and torture.

"Blaine _owes_ us."

* * *

><p>After a suitably long period of time spent enjoying Rachel's company and, perhaps more importantly, annoying the hell out of zombie-boy, Jesse makes his excuses, stepping away with a polite but flirtatious smile (aimed at both of them, simply for Finn's reaction).<p>

As he walks down the corridor, he sees a girl who he recognises vaguely as someone who's been standing in the corner of the meeting room where he was formally introduced. She's dressed like a northerner – a friend of Blaine's? – and she walks slowly ahead of him, book in her hand.

Normally, he'd either dismiss this stranger as insignificant to his life or find her attractive enough to warrant his time.

But something about that walk, and the girl's profile as she turns a corner…

_Wait. I know that face…_

"_Alessandra_?" Jesse exclaims. The girl turns around, and Jesse frowns in surprise; it's not 'Sandra, though this girl looks startlingly like her. But as he walks closer, he sees yet another familiar face, lurking in the depths of her dark brown eyes…

_Ah._

"Who the hell are you?" Santana Lopez demands, and Jesse digs up his most disarmingly charming smile.

"Jesse of Carmel," he says, flashing his teeth. "Sorry, Mistress…Lopez, isn't it?" he asks, though he already knows the answer. "I'm a…friend…of Alessandra – your mother."

Alessandra's bastard daughter smiles slightly as he says her mother's name, eyes brightening briefly before her face settles in a disdainful scowl. "'Friend'?" she asks flatly. "Does that mean fuck buddy, or lackey?"

_Oh, _Jesse thinks, delighted, _she even _talks _like 'Sandra! _

"I'm too old for the former," he sighs, raising one hand to his heart in affected torment. "'Sandra's having another of those _phases_ – right now, she's only doing guys who haven't yet seen their second decade."

"Eurgh," Santana groans. "how embarrassing." She shifts the book from one hand to the other, and as Jesse leans _very _slightly forward, he sees the title.

He smirks.

"So," Jesse says casually – perhaps too casually, because Santana's eyes narrow slightly but oh well – "how's being Compelled?"

Santana stiffens, and the sort of panicked _I-am-screwed _look on her face reminds Jesse far too much of 'Sandra.

"I have no idea-" she begins, but he waves his hand to cut her off.

"Please," Jesse sighs, "spare me. I know all about Gabe the babe and his delicious plans for that gorgeous munchkin of yours."

"'Munchkin'? I like that," Santana muses, pursing her lips, "- wait – _no_!" She shakes her head violently. "How the _fuck _do you know about-"

"I'm a Shielder."

"Yeah, yeah, that's nice, but-"

She stops.

"A Shielder."

"Yes indeed."

"A Shielder."

"Definitely."

"_You are a fucking Shielder_."

"_Yep_," Jesse almost sings. "Lots of fun, though with the rather unfortunate side-effect of having the Gabester chasing after me with two armies and a cat."

To her credit, Santana does a passable job of ignoring what Jesse said. "What," Alessandra's look-alike says with a scoff, "so you're here to save us all from…wait, do you call him that to his _face_?"

"Wouldn't know," Jesse says happily, "I've never met him. And no," he adds, "I most unfortunately am not here to extract all you lovely individuals from what is really a rather hilarious situation."

"Hilarious."

Jesse shrugs. "For me, certainly. But then, I'm not the one involved."

"What, that's the best reason you can come up with?"

He smiles slightly, but he can feel that his eyes have gone flat and humourless. "I don't need a reason, Lopez. My Talent, my choice."

"How unchivalrous," she retorts, and that sarcasm, overlaid over genuine concern and worry, reminds him once again – almost painfully, his time – of 'Sandra. "And here I was, thinking you were going to save a poor girl from her brothers."

Jesse smirks. "What, and then we kiss and live happily ever after?" She laughs out loud at that.

"You wish," and really, is it possible to _stand _suggestively? Because even if it isn't, Santana's doing a darn good job of it, "I don't play for your team, St James."

_I know_. _Believe me, I know_. "Well, that's wonderful, because neither do I." He doesn't give her time to respond – an effective technique Jesse perfected on Finn – and continues. "Anyway, sorry, hun. Not a chance."

He sees her fist clench but once again, he's impressed by her surprising control – but then, she _is _Alessandra's daughter. "Then what're you doing here? Apart from running to girly to hide, which I personally think is about as big a waste of time as digging a dam with a gold spoon. You trying to get that hobbit?"

"Hobbit?"

She rolls her eyes. "What's-her-name, that little midget you were eye-raping about five minutes ago."

"Ah, Rachel," Jesse sighs dramatically, not bothering to deny that accusation of action – though with the way Rachel had been reacting, it was certainly _not _'rape'. "The love of my life, the light of my sky, the light at the end of my tunnel…" He shakes his head. "But alas, I am here for a different reason – though," Jesse adds as an afterthought, "I must admit that I can't resist any chance to stir up that caterpillar on legs, Finn of Hudson."

"…Right," Santana says, one perfectly-shaped eyebrow (he really _must _ask her how she does that) raised in a disdain that's quite obviously hiding a lot of confusion. "Well, though I totally agree that Hudson isn't exactly bringing sexy back, that doesn't answer my question. What're you doing here?"

Jesse smiles widely again, making sure to bare as many of his perfectly white teeth (he checked in the mirror fifteen minutes ago, so he's fairly sure of that) as possible. "Oh, me? I'm here to seduce your brother."

"Wha-"

"You know," Jesse continues, "the attractive one. Sex on legs, I'd say, but that's me. What's his name- oh, that's right. Blaine."

* * *

><p><strong>Wanna know how the Wevid stuff came about?<strong>

I was literally like 'I feel like writing about them. But I don't know what to do. Haha, I wonder what Wes would do if a dragon was chasing him. I know, let's have a dragon chase him!'

I'm just glad I actually tied a plot point into that, otherwise you guys would have been subjected to the wonders of...pointless fantasy.

Yes, Jesse is serious.

Also, I hope that answered questions about circumventing Compulsion. It's fairly impossible. There is only _one _loophole, which I've hinted at here. Very indirectly. And this is coming from _me _so if you find it...

...good luck ;)

Anyway, please tell me what you thought/feel free to question (=

Till next time,

Zayre


	13. Metaphors

**AN: SOME CHANGES/INFO YOU MAY FIND INTERESTING:**

**Ages:** Okay so I think I've vaguely mentioned some ages. However, I'm basically revising them so sorry. Also, in this world, they operate by a lunar calendar - a month is 28 days - and the year is exactly 12 months long. So characters are in actuality around one of our years younger than the age given.

_Blaine and Kurt:_ 20 - where the age of adulthood is 21.

_Santana and Rachel:_ 21

_Brittany, Wes and David:_ 22

_Jesse:_ 26

_Gabriel:_ 27

Incidentally, Gabriel and Blaine have the same birthday. Coincidence? I THINK NOT. (Jokes, it's actually coincidence.)

**Talents: **Someone asked about this, so I'm just going to say it.

Basically, there are two types of Talents; specific and general. Specific Talents are Gabriel's (Compulsion) and Rachel's (Healing). They're very, very strong but are quite narrow in scope, and reflect a certain type of personality. General Talents encompass a wide range of general semi/sub-Talents - e.g. Jesse is nominally a Shielder but his real Talent would actually be a sort of intrinsic understanding of magic - he can see people's magical strengths and can Shield against Talents. Santana is also like this; she's got an intrinsic understanding of the sort of mental/emotional realm - the mind, as it were. This explains her ability with animals and even plants, and her ability to die without, well, dying.

**Magical Strength: **Santana is probably quite a bit weaker than she seems. Wes and David are obviously very strong. Blaine is strong but, since strength is not only a potential thing but also dependent on one's training, he's currently weaker than Gabriel (Blaine just assumed he had no real strength compared to Gabriel whereas Gabriel has always concentrated on being as good as he can be.)

**Geography: **The Confederation of the Sun Kingdoms together are about as big as the Soviet Union (back when it existed) and Altha by itself is about twice the size of France. The Low Lands are slightly bigger but have a lower population due to the shite weather.

So this chapter is, once again, quite messy (sorry!) However, it does (in response to a rather accurate comment which stated that we know quite little about Kurt) have some certain information about him that will come up later. I've tried to be as in-character with him as possible but I really don't know how well it went.

Anyway, please enjoy!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 12 - Metaphors<strong>

_**Two days later (2 months down, 10 left)**_

Kurt exhales heavily as he tries to block out the sound of Rachel's voice – hard, considering she's standing right next to him and, for that matter, _talking _to him.

On some level he knows she's right.

(Scratch that, she's actually completely right. There's a reason he doesn't simply lock her in a soundproof room.)

(Though, when she's not working…now that _is _an idea…)

But there's nothing she can do about it, and there's nothing he can either.

"Just leave it, Rachel," Kurt says quietly, trying to keep the waves of emotion within him from spilling into his words.

"But-"

"_Rachel, please_." His voice breaks on the last word, only slightly but enough that she bites her lip and turns away slightly.

"Fine. _Fine_. It's just, you know…"

_Fucking hell!_

"I _know, Rachel_," Kurt shouts heatedly, pivoting to face her. "Is it _possible _for you to, you know, actually stop _talking _and, I don't know, shut up and just _think _for more than about half a second?"

She goes very, very still, and for some reason that makes him angrier.

"Do you really think I'm not _trying_? Do you realise just how _hard _it is, when I'm trying andif I'm lucky I might get a half-polite smile and a touch on the arm?" Kurt demands, clenching his fists. "Don't you realise just how many times I've wanted to _give up on him_?"

He shakes his head violently, like he's trying to shake off his anger (and it isn't working). "You know what, how do you even know I _want _to marry him?"

* * *

><p>"<em>You know," St James continues, "the attractive one. Sex on legs, I'd say, but that's me. What's his name- oh, that's right. Blaine."<em>

_She's not entirely sure whether it's the force of her hand or her magic (Santana totally believes it's the former but realism leads her to believe that…just no) but somehow he ends up halfway down the corridor on his back, groaning in pain._

_He sits up, only for her to push him back down with her foot, keeping it on his chest till he stops trying to resist (and then for a bit longer because, hey, she doesn't get to do this sort of thing that often and it's really quite fun.)_

"_Oh, I'm sorry," Jesse wheezes, though he's disappointingly calm for someone who's just been thrown about fifty metres down a corridor. "I didn't realise you two had something going on…"_

"_What the actual _fuck_?" Santana exclaims, probably sounding slightly more outraged than she is, "that is _disgusting_. Like, _eww_."_

_St James raises an eyebrow, and she's almost tempted to pin him down by his face instead but she's not entirely sure how to heal crushed eyeballs. _

_Also, eww._

"_Anyway,_ _don't just _assume _things like that…anyway," Santana says quickly, "what the fuck do you think you're _doing_?"_

_The man laughs slightly – a laugh that turns rather quickly into a wheeze as she moves her foot from his chest to his neck. "You _are _'Sandra's daughter," he says with something that sounds more like an insult than anything, despite his tone of admiration._

"_Unfortunately," Santana says through gritted teeth._

_She tries not to think about Alessandra – _Mum _– when she doesn't have to…_

_Which reminds her…"Which reminds me," she adds as an afterthought, "how do you know my _mother_?"_

_St James stills beneath her foot (which she's moved back to his chest, if only because, like eyeballs, windpipes aren't her specialty.) "So many questions, Mistress Lopez, and so little time…"_

_She puts more pressure on his chest and the noble (royal? Maybe – Santana's not good with ranks) gasps. _

"_Certainly not much time for _you_," she hisses. "So spill. _Now_."_

Santana has no idea how _now _turned into _come to my chambers at 9:18 pm on Thursday night_.

If she didn't know better, she might even admit that this St James of Carmel was even better than she was.

(Of course, that's completely impossible so she dismisses the thought straight away.)

* * *

><p>Kurt has never been slapped before. Punched? Yes. Attacked by a dragon? Yes. Had his face almost burned off? <em>Yes<em>.

But somehow, he's managed to avoid the slapping that seems the fate of any straight male and any girl with an ounce of personality.

So it's more the shock that stings his face (or half of it, anyway). Though he also has to admit that, for Rachel, she's actually pretty good at this.

Which sort of makes him feel sorry for Finn because he doesn't doubt that his step-brother's borne the brunt of Rachel's practice…

"I _know_!" Rachel shrieks, the volume and sheer pitch of her voice managing to shatter the half-coma that her slap induced. "I _know_! I _know _it's hard, I _know _what you think! But…"

Her shoulders slump, fiery rage burning in her eyes suddenly replaced by a dullness that manages to seep through Kurt's still-surprised haze of _what…?_ as she collapses ungracefully to the floor, head leaning against the hard wood of the foot of his bed, turning her head to lean it against his knee (Kurt is rather proud of himself for _not _kicking her in the face.)

"I talked to Mike," Rachel sighs. "About our army."

Kurt frowns slightly; that triggers a memory, but what of?...

Oh.

Vaguely, he remembers the off-hand request he made of Rachel – just in case the treaty fell through, just in case Vastra moved faster than anticipated, but…

"And?" he asks stiffly, resisting the urge to swallow.

Against his knee, Kurt feels his step-sister-in-law shake her head. "Not good," she replies grimly. "I mean, it's not that they're not strong – maybe war magic isn't really their forte right now but with a bit of work…but that's not the problem."

"Then…?"

"We don't have enough of them." Rachel sits up and pulls away, turning on the thick carpet to face Kurt. "Not enough to hold off Vastra for more than maybe a month. Not enough to hold off the Sun Kingdoms – even just _Altha _– for more than a few years."

Kurt's rather familiar with that sinking feeling – the _oh dear, where is my stomach going? _sensation. But that doesn't make it any more pleasant. "Surely with the combined Low Lands armies…" he begins, but Rachel shakes her head again.

"No," she says softly.

"Private armies?" Kurt asks, and he can hear the desperation in his own voice. She just looks at him, calmly and steadily, and he exhales heavily. If he were a swearing person, he'd swear. As it is, he sort of wants to scream at just how frustrating this all is, at being forced to marry a guy who he's becoming less and less into (at least till Blaine smiles at him the next time and his heart melts and he feels all gooey and jelly-like inside) to stop everything from falling apart around him.

Out loud, Kurt sticks with, "this is not good."

"What's not good?"

* * *

><p>Santana's somewhat disappointed when the door doesn't swing open dramatically (or blast off its hinges) when she flicks her hand, sending a whip-thin stream of Air straight at it. Instead, she hears the sound of a clear bell-like chime<p>

"Nice room," Santana admits – understatement, since she's almost positive that it's gold coating those walls and _is that real sapphire? _– before remembering (again) just why she's here. Once again, unwilling admiration wells up within her, because _she's _meant to be the disorienting one.

Not some pretentious fop with hair that looks like Blaine's gone horribly wrong. And _brown_.

"Oh, believe me," St James replies with an exaggerated sigh, flopping dramatically into an armchair which actually looked like it was made from _leather _– real leather, and not mountain lion pelt or whatever they used here, "I know. Especially since most of these things come from Carmel. You wouldn't _believe _the export-import tariffs out of there."

Santana's about to reply with _you own it, so just abolish the tariffs for a day and then bribe someone to be executed for smuggling and reinstate them – I'd know, Wes does it all the time for Anderson_. Instead, though, she reminds herself sternly that she's not going to succumb to his disorienting wiles, and sits as regally as possible (making sure to cross her legs so her tight, blood-red dress rides up her leg) on the chair opposite the man.

"Well?" she demands, and she's pleased to see St James's eyes flicker, almost unnoticeably, to her half-bare thigh, "Blaine. You. Seducing. _Spill or die_."

St James pouts, and then sighs.

"Well, if I'm being honest with you," he says calmly, "it's either Kurt or Blaine that I have to win over with my manly wiles. But since Kurt sounds like a girl and, honestly, if I wanted that I'd, well, go for a girl, I think I'll settle for the munchkin."

"Oh, really."

"Well," Jesse amends, "only once he washes out – three times, with a toothbrush and chainmail – whatever toxic oil he seems to insist soaking his luscious locks in."

* * *

><p>It's Blaine. Goddess damn it, stupid Blaine, who is currently standing in the doorway of Kurt's rooms, face flushed in a way that'd tell Kurt that his sort-of-fiancé had just been visiting that stupid tree of his (<em>again<em>) even if his hair wasn't obviously wet from melted snow.

Stupid clueless _attractive _Blaine – that _stuff _(Kurt has no idea what it is, and he doesn't really want to know) that Blaine normally dumps in his hair like he's going for the 'saturated in jelly' look has somehow either been forgotten or, more likely, washed out in the rain. Which means that Blaine has the whole _just-got-out-of-bed _thing going, and…

"Kurt? Rachel?" Blaine asks, looking back and forwards between Kurt and his step-sister-in-law.

Kurt sighs.

"Nothing's wrong."

_Lie._

Everything is wrong, and the best part is, other people are starting to _notice_.

"_If Azimio has nothing to add…I take it this meeting is over?" Kurt asks, but he stands before Azimio, whose mouth hangs open in shock, has time to respond._

"_Kurt," Mr Schue says as they make to walk out of the meeting room, Rachel chattering away loudly and swiftly to Finn who seems to be just fine in the nodding-and-smiling-when-appropriate-department, "I don't mean to be intrusive or anything, but…" He hesitates._

_Kurt frowns. "What's wrong?"_

"_It's about…well, it's about Blaine."_

"_Is something wrong?" Kurt asks quickly, turning to his left to face his old teacher in alarm – but Mr Schue just sighs. _

"_Well, not just Blaine…It's…"_

Ah.

_Rachel turns around when Kurt stops moving, and part of his mind scoffs at how a simple touch to Finn's arm causes Kurt's older step-brother's eyes to widen in comprehension and for him to walk away quickly and silently from Rachel as she steps towards Kurt._

"_I mean…I was simply wondering how…how soon we might expect a more definite…you know."_

"_I don't see how this concerns any of you," Kurt retorts stiffly, unable to restrain the sharpness infiltrating his tone. "It's my business, not yours."_

"…_Um, well," Rachel says, taking over from Mr Schue, "um, Kurt…that's the thing. It sort of…is our business."_

"_We _need _this alliance, Kurt," Mr Schue adds, nodding in agreement, "you know it's true. Right now we don't even know whether Gabriel-"_

"_-And that's why Blaine's here, so honestly you actually can-"_

"_-I'm sure he's a sensible young man-"_

"_-Anyway, you guys get along so well, I'm sure-"_

"_-Needs of a nation must come before-"_

"_-he-"_

"Je sais_!" Kurt shouts._

_The dim sound of footsteps outside in the corridor stops, as do (thank the Goddess) the sounds of Mr Schue and Rachel's voices._

_Well, at least until Rachel, with her flawless inability to read moods, says loudly, "you do realise that none of us speak Old Alth-"_

"_I know," Kurt growls, pushing past her and striding down the corridor with as much manly _don't-talk-to-me _as he can muster._

Je sais. _I know. But what exactly am I meant to do about it?_

* * *

><p>"For the last time, daughter of Alessandra," Jesse sighs, "I'm not telling you <em>why<em>."

He should stop calling her anything to do with Alessandra; if he didn't already know, her reactions would be enough to tell him that the bastard child and her royal mother aren't exactly on the best of terms.

But honestly, it's sort of funny, and considering he's spent the last half an hour saying '_no_' to a bombardment of questions which all average out to '_why do you want to sleep with my brother?_' Jesse's not exactly inspired to be _nice_.

"Stop _calling _me that!" Lopez exclaims, and Jesse grins. _Wonderful_.

He could probably get away with telling her (as he thinks about it, a hand lifts from the armrest of his chair to lightly touch the vial around his neck in reassurance) but Jesse doesn't like to be wasteful, and giving away _all _his secrets would be not so much a waste of expensive magic so much as a waste of an opportunity.

"Do you have any idea of just how much this is going to complicate my _life_?" the girl demands, leaning forwards and staring at him intensely with those dark eyes that look _way _too much like Gabe-the-babe's for Jesse's liking – once again, he's struck by just how bizarrely _terrifying _the combination of Alessandra's and James's – Gabriel's – features is.

Jesse merely smiles in response. "Please don't tell me," he says lightly, "I'm really quite bad at, you know, caring."

He's also quite good at lying; Rachel would know…Rachel, who's married the most uncool half-giant on the planet, Rachel who really could have looked past that misunderstanding of theirs if she had only tried a little harder, which would have saved Jesse from this monumental task of seducing Blaine who, despite having magic that smells like strawberries and tastes like chocolate, seems to have an unfortunate tendency to abuse gel like it murdered him in a past life.

But no. Instead of being happily married to Rachel, Jesse is now hiding from a psychopath and taking orders from someone that he wouldn't hire as a backup dancer in a musical.

_Honestly, can things get any worse?_

"And _how _do you know my mother?"

_Obviously, they can_.

* * *

><p>Blaine is bored.<p>

And not just _I'm tired and hungry and can't be bothered finding anything to do _bored. Instead, he's _awake and too full to eat anything that isn't made of air or water and dying of an overdose of something that should probably be made illegal because honestly who actually needs this much energy? _bored.

He'd been about to accost Santana in the corridors, for once walking without Brittany (Blaine likes the blonde but, despite himself, he's starting to miss Santana).

That plan, however, came crashing to a halt when that strand of Air snaked around his chest and tightened, sending cracks running like fault lines in the planet's crust through his ribs. By the time he'd stopped sobbing in agony and actually started doing something about it, she was gone down one of about five thousand corridors in the general vicinity.

_Brilliant_.

So now, he's corridor-wandering, waiting for the next metaphorical car to come by and take pity on his metaphorically hitch-hiking soul, walking desolately along the side of the metaphorical road.

_Oh, wonderful. I talk to plants, compare my darling sister's violence to geological phenomena, and now I can't even think of a good metaphor. _

_I think I'm going crazy_, Blaine thinks as he opens the heavy door to the library, walking through shelves upon shelves of books and staring at the titles without actually seeing them.

He's not sure of why he's complaining – normally, Blaine relishes these moments alone, where he doesn't really have to think about anything or maintain his façade of normalcy. But now that he's getting better at compartmentalising – at playing the friendly, happy sort-of-possible-boyfriend to Kurt and the bitter, terrified younger brother to Santana – Blaine almost finds it strange to be alone with his thoughts. With _all _of them.

_**Talents: A Brief History On The Development Of Specific Magics**_, reads one of the few titles that catch Blaine's eye.

_Talents_.

_Jesse of Carmel_, Blaine realises suddenly. How could he _forget_? A Shielder - a _real _Shielder, and probably strong at that, if Gabriel is hunting for him.

Blaine doesn't know how Shielding actually works, but right now he's sort of getting vaguely desperate…

"…and Kurt's starting to talk about…"

With a start, Blaine recognises Rachel's rather distinctive voice – though not the male voice that murmurs in agreement.

More from curiosity than anything, Blaine sidles over to the edge of the aisle, looking as unobtrusively as possible around the corner to see the back of Rachel's head.

"…I know it's his choice who he marries but we _need _this to work, and…" Rachel trails off, and Blaine sees her head move slightly from side to side, as if in denial. "He can't give up, but he's starting to talk about it and…"

Suddenly, Blaine doesn't want to hear the rest of the conversation.

* * *

><p>Santana's about to ask again (probably without anymore success than last time) just <em>what <em>this idiot thinks he's doing when the door bursts open.

"Ah, Prince Kurt," St James says smoothly, rising but not actually bowing – just how rude that is, Santana can't tell, because the girl's face is impassive. "What brings you to my humble" his arm lifts to sweep around what is probably about five times bigger than Hummel's chambers, "abode?"

Hummel bites his lip, before his jaw clenches and his eyes harden into a dark almost-blue that Santana's never seen before.

Granted, she's only actually seen Hummel for about five minutes in total, but whatever.

"I need a favour," Hummel says quietly.

* * *

><p><strong>There is drama next chapter o.0 <strong>Which I have just realised, staring at my notes. At 1:40am, Sydney time.

I needs to sleep. Oh dear...

Anyway, thank you to all those lovelies who reviewed; I hope I responded sufficiently to all your questions! Please feel welcome/encouraged to drop me a review/message/tumblr thingy if you have any questions, comments or the like!

Till next time!

Zayre


	14. Kisses

**AN: **It feels like an eon since I last updated...

Anyway, MERRY BELATED CHRISTMAS TO YOU ALL! I really hope you all had lots of fun! My family isn't Christian/doesn't follow any of the 3 Western/monotheistic traditions so Christmas doesn't quite have the significance that it would have for many of you guys - but it was still nice. Also, just saying, Christmas shopping - i.e. buying things for others in general - is actually so nice and fuzzy-making.

In other news, I've gotten my uni entrance mark/s back (my subject/exam/HSC marks) - and the final MARK that determines all. I got an ATAR (Australian Tertiary Admissions Rank) of 97.05 (99.95 being the highest) and I THINK it's meant to be a sort of greater than/equal to thing. Which means that I did fairly okay-ish, though of course my parents (who are fairly strict) were immediately saying 'WHY DIDN'T YOU GET 99.95?

I'm determined to be a screenwriter, but I'm not entirely sure what degree to do. Right now, I've opted for just a plain Arts degree (though this of course is prompting my relatives to say 'Why aren't you doing anything with a higher ATAR requisite since you got a high-ish one anyway? (Arts ranges from as low as 60-something at some universities to 84 at the University of Sydney, which is where I plan to go.) I'm looking at potential post-grad in the States though...yeah, that'd be hard. But oh well.

**Question re: this story**. As is perhaps predictable, I'm starting to run out of/be low on steam for this story. It's not too bad - but I've started another story which will be wildly different to this (not up on yet, but getting there) which I'm collaborating with an awesome artist friend of mine to turn into a manga. Which is awesome and cool, but it means I have somewhat less time for writing this. So, the question is as follows: Do you want the same frequency of updates but shorter chapters, or less updates but the same length for chapters?

I leave the decision up to you guys.

Thanks to everyone who reviewed, and please do take the time to - it's so unbelievably appreciated (=

Enjoy!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 14 - Kisses<strong>

"Anything else?"

King Gabriel isn't even looking up from the apparently fascinating paperwork on his desk, but David still cringes at the tone, automatically glancing to his left for support before remembering that Wes is still in bed, recovering from the crushed fire-snake scales that had been dissolved into his dinner wine.

"Um, we-well…" David hears the falter in his voice and tries to tell himself that it's just because he's tired, and Wes isn't here.

But…There's something strange about the way Gabriel is speaking, something about the buzz of magic in the air that's always been strong but is now almost overwhelming.

"Forgive me for asking, your Majesty, but…is everything alright?"

_Don't step backwards, don't step backwards_, David tells himself as the King looks up; but instead of the harsh amusement and cold cruelty in those Santana/James-esque eyes, Gabriel merely frowns slightly, blinking twice before shaking his head.

"No, no," Blaine's brother murmurs, "merely…hmm. I'm sorry, David, was there anything else?"

Deciding that, for sanity's sake, he's going to leave thinking about the fact that _Gabriel apologised to me_ till later, David looks down at the papers in his hands. "There is an unusually large nest of ice-dragons up in the Dadrian Glaciers, scientists are standing by predictions of a sharp increase in the northern migration of dragons – both common and magic-bred – from the preceding decade but can't explain _why_…the forests bordering the Great Desert near Theirel are being plagued by dragons…" David trails off. "Basically, a lot of dragons," he summarises, mostly because there are about fifteen more dragon-related _things _on this list and he sort of wants to get out of this room before anything else bizarre like another apology comes his way.

The King doesn't seem particularly bothered by the news (though, considering Gabriel's record with dragons, David can see why he isn't), merely frowning very slightly before shrugging.

"Very well. If that is all, you may leave."

_Thank the Gods_, David thinks fervently, barely keeping to a walk (albeit a rather swift one) as he heads across the vast room towards the door.

"Oh, David," Gabriel calls out suddenly from behind him, "one more thing."

David turns slowly, trying not to think about just how much he wants to get back to Wes. "Yes, your Majesty?"

"Tell me…what do you know of a…" the King looks down briefly, "Hmm. A man by the name of 'Jesse St James'?"

* * *

><p>Blaine never realised Rachel and silence were compatible on any level.<p>

And so once again, as he sits curled up in an armchair, reading about the wonders of theoretical magic and its compatibility with music as a medium, he finds himself forced to revise his opinion of her.

"Hey, hobbit," Santana says, her normally stridently loud voice somehow subdued by the warm calm _silence _permeating the air, "what're you doing?" She seems, like Blaine, to be rather surprised by this side of Rachel – the side that looks up, not even objecting to the name, and murmurs something about '_Violence and Politics: Globalisation's Paradox'_ before returning to a research book that looks to be almost as big as she is.

Santana glances at Blaine, who shrugs and smiles a '_well, as long as it's quiet, I don't really care'_ smile, looking back down at his book. From the corner of his eye, he notices Santana shake her head in what looks like disbelief as she stands, walking over to the shelves.

Blaine smiles again.

It's nice having time to himself; time that's so rare, unless he's hiding in the greenhouse (which Rachel has dubbed his '_NO-TOUCH_' zone.) It's even nicer to have time to _read_, because most of the time he could spend reading he spends thinking about…

_Get out of my head, Kurt_, Blaine thinks sourly; but it's too late.

'_He can't give up, but he's starting to think about it' – is that right?_

Try as he might, Blaine hasn't been able to get those damning words out of his head for the whole week and a half or so since he heard them. And all it's doing is reminding him that he's got less than ten months to – well, at this stage, _live_.

That is, if he can maintain this stupid balancing act, of trying not to show just how he's starting to feel about his frustrating, hilarious, clueless…

_Stop thinking about it_, Blaine tells himself sternly. _Just stop_.

Unbidden, a memory flashes in his mind; of Carole, with her warm, compassionate smile, and the words she said to him the last time they really talked.

If he'd known staying alive was going to be this complicated, he might have let Gabriel murder him _years _ago.

It's about half an hour later when the library door opens. Blaine has moved on from the section about music, flicked through movement – he's vaguely aware that Wes's medium is movement-related but the theory isn't particularly interesting – and is reading with more than a little interest about theories and studies into the possibility of a super-language that would eliminate the need for multilingualism.

So when Brittany wanders into the main clearing in the library, Blaine doesn't even bother looking up, hoping desperately that Santana deals with the girl quickly enough that he doesn't lose track of this particular magical equation-

"Idiot," calls Santana, and he sighs. "Your girl wants to see you."

_Eurgh_. Blaine stands slowly, setting aside the book reluctantly. "Coming, Rachel?" he directs at the book behind which he assumes Rachel is sitting.

She doesn't respond, but Brittany leans forward to whisper in Santana's ear.

"Oh, and apparently that foreign rich guy wants to see you too, hobbit." She frowns. "And _me_, though I have no idea…"

Rachel's loud, exaggerated sigh stops Blaine from catching the end of Santana's sentence. "And here I was, thinking I might actually get some _work _done." But she's already standing against the door, arms folded and eyes gleaming, and Blaine remembers Kurt saying something about Rachel and Jesse…

_Well_, he thinks to himself, casting one last lingering glance of longing at the book, _at least this should be interesting…_

* * *

><p>"This is going to go terribly," Kurt mutters, shuffling nervously from one foot to the other.<p>

Jesse shrugs. "Your idea, sweetling." He frowns. "Alright, _never _using that on you again."

The younger boy shudders. "I couldn't agree more."

* * *

><p>Blaine knocks on the door; softly at first, then harder when there's no response from within. "Kurt? Lord Jesse? Are you there?" he calls loudly when the knocking doesn't meet with any success.<p>

"There must be silence wards up," Rachel says, her shoulder brushing his arm as she moves forwards to touch the door lightly. "And, um, Blaine – you _do _realise the door is unlocked, don't you?"

"…Oh." Blaine flushes. "Oops."

"Yeah, whatever," Santana mutters, shouldering aside Blaine roughly as she steps towards the door, gripping the handle and turning as she continues speaking, "can we just get this over and-"

She stops speaking mid-sentence, taking a step forwards into the room before stopping, eyes widening impossibly. As Rachel, who's just in front of Blaine, makes to walk through the door, she freezes as well, and she shuffles backwards, straight into Blaine's chest.

"Santana?" Blaine asks, confused. "Rachel? What's wrong?"

He pushes past the two of them just in time to see Kurt and Jesse pull away from one another, lips swollen and a flush tainting Kurt's pale skin.

Blaine only manages to hold the other Prince's wide-eyed, slightly dazed gaze for a few seconds before, tearing his eyes away from the scene, he brushes by Rachel, leaving the room.

He makes it to the end of the corridor and till he turns the corner before he starts running.

* * *

><p>"Um, sorry, your Majesty…but is this a trick question?"<p>

As soon as the question leaves David's mouth he's mentally kicking himself.

It must show on his face, because Gabriel smiles slightly. "Calm down, David," the King says calmly. "Contrary to popular belief, not _every _question I ask is calculated to have you produce evidence of your…indiscretions."

_Why isn't Wes here? _David thinks desperately. _He knows how to handle these _really _awkward moments_. "Indiscretions, your Majesty?" he asks, hoping that he sounds as calm as he is agitated. "W-I have been nothing but faithf-"

"And I do not doubt it," Gabriel interjects. "Now, if you please. Jesse St James?"

"Sorry sir," David says quickly. "Jesse St James…26 years old, born in the Independent Province of Carmel and now its Reignant. His Talent is – well, he's an _Oskarbi_, which as you are no doubt aware, your Majesty, includes Shielding-"

"I suppose I did ask…" the King sighs, cutting through what is, to David's horror, turning very much into a ramble. "I'd intended more for some commentary on his political affiliations and so on…but more specifically, David – what do you think of the fact that he is currently in Lima?"

Some small, insignificant part of David (probably his soul) dies inside of him.

_Thank you, Jesse. Thank you very, very much._

* * *

><p>After the stunned silence that's broken by the distant sound of fast footsteps (Anderson, Jesse assumes) it's Rachel, eyes hard and teeth gritted, who makes the first move.<p>

Her reaction is everything Jesse hoped for; unfortunately, the fact that it's Kurt that she slaps means that it's Alessandra's bastard who gets him – and she gets him good, too, shattering his nose with a wonderfully crafted combination of Air, Fire, and sheer _fist_, before a splayed hand against his chest sends bone shards through his blood and gashing through his skin (and blood dripping down to the floor, ruining the beautiful specially-imported midnight lynx fur carpet.)

_At least the blood won't show_ _against the black…_

In between gasping in agony and trying desperately not to cry because that would be _embarrassing_, however, Jesse manages to catch the anguished look Rachel sends his way. And when she whispers "How _dare _you?" as she looks at Kurt, he can't help but imagine her gaze flickering to him for just one half-second before she runs out the door. Santana lingers a little longer, casting a murderous glance at Kurt, who, cheek bruised and wet with blood, cringes very slightly.

Thankfully though, she doesn't attack him too (Jesse's never liked defending people unless he really genuinely cares about them, and in the state he's in, he doesn't know how viable that would be anyway), instead flicking a finger at Jesse (who doesn't bother to react as a flow of Air whips his face hard) before walking out.

There's a moment's silence.

"Please get her for assault," Jesse groans – though really, it sounds more like "pwee ge'er f' salt". Kurt, who had been staring at the door with a mix of contemplation and slight guilt in his eyes, looks at Jesse in horror, obviously taking in for the first time the broken nose and the blood seeping through Jesse's white shirt.

"Are you alright?" the Prince whispers, leaning forwards as if to touch Jesse – why, Jesse isn't quite sure.

"I'll be fine," he says dismissively (once again, it doesn't really sound like he intends), weaving a net of Air that carries him towards his large bed.

"I just…I didn't think she'd react so…" Kurt shudders.

Jesse laughs and then winces, feeling his currently nonexistent ribs protest at the movement. _Ribs or nose, ribs or nose_…Stupid question, he supposes, especially as he feels a bone shard poke at his lung.

Taking a deep breath and then wondering why, as his gasp of pain releases half of the air, Jesse braces himself for the pain – and then he starts.

Air around all the bone shards, holding them in place, as he mentally configures just how they're going to fit together again. Water for fluidity, as they're pushed together with the force of raw magic stopping his nerves from sending him into a fit of pain. Fire to loosen the bonds and to meld the matter together once more. And Earth to seal, before he allows himself a calming blend of Water and raw magic, soothing the raw pain receptacles of his body.

After that, his nose is easy enough; cartilage is always easier to mould than bone, after all.

"I'm sorry," someone whispers. Jesse looks up, startled – though it's probably only been a minute or two since he started healing himself, it seems, fairly understandably, like a lot longer.

"Pardon?" he asks distractedly, staring at Kurt searchingly. Something's wrong, something's off…"Oh, no, I was…hey, Kurt, aren't you going to do anything about your _face_?"

Kurt blinks, raising a hand to his cheek and looking at his now-bloodstained fingers. "Oh. Right. Um…"

_Ah_.

"Here," Jesse says, cringing at how hoarse and disgusting his voice sounds before standing and stepping towards the Prince, touching the cheek briefly with one finger.

"Thanks. Are you _sure _you're fine?"

Frowning, Jesse closes his eyes briefly,

"But she…" Kurt shakes his head. "That must have _hurt_."

And suddenly Jesse understands. "Kurt," he says carefully, "you've never been to the Sun Kingdoms, have you?"

Kurt raises an eyebrow, looking somewhat more like the Kurt Hummel Jesse knows and mildly tolerates. "Can you imagine what that would do to my _skin_?"

_Thought so_. "Look…" Jesse pauses for a moment, trying to figure out how to say what he wants to say. For him, it's easy – but then, Carmel borders the Confederation (thankfully, it's a _very _long way away from Altha), so all of this is second nature to him. "Let's just say…they're a lot more…_violent_…up north."

"I can tell," Kurt mutters, but Jesse shakes his head.

"Not like that," he argues. "But…well, let's just say that life is the most important thing to them up there."

"I fail to see-"

"Life. Not having a pleasant, happy life. Just…_life_. It's the only thing that _matters_."

From the frown on Kurt's face, it's obvious he doesn't understand. Frustrated, Jesse makes to run a hand through his hair (before he remembers that he really shouldn't ruin perfection). "Look, Hummel," he says wearily, "assault isn't a crime in the Sun Kingdoms."

At first, it looks like Kurt hasn't processed the words – and then he goes rigid, and Jesse smiles.

_Finally_.

"…What?"

"Murder is punishable by death," Jesse continues calmly. "But that's it. Why do you think the Medics College at Karnath is the best one around? Because the best way of learning how to heal is to practice on people."

"That's horrible."

Half an hour ago, Jesse would have disagreed. Right now, fresh from the attack by 'Sandra's bastard, he's feeling a bit less sure about that. "Well," he shrugs, "that's how it is. The upside is that if you want anything healed, _someone _from up there will be able to do it."

Kurt doesn't respond, moving towards the armchair that Lopez sat in the last time Jesse saw her here, and the realisation hits Jesse that this is the first serious conversation he's ever really had with Kurt.

_Okay, that's just a little bit too disturbing for me_.

"_So_," Jesse drawls, "how was your first kiss?"

Kurt casts him a startled glance, before laughing shortly.

"Excuse me? First kiss? _Please_, like I'd waste that on you, St James."

"Excuse _me_?" Jesse responds, unable to hide his surprise. "_Who_?"

A smirk crosses Kurt's lips. "I don't kiss and tell." He hesitates, before adding: "but he was definitely better than you."

_I find _that _hard to believe_, Jesse thinks, and he says as much; but Kurt merely smiles again, though somewhat wistfully this time.

"Anyway," Jesse says hurriedly to stop himself from wondering _too _much just who this probably made-up kissing-meister is, "did you find out what you needed to?"

He thinks back to the wide-eyed hurt on Blaine Anderson's face, the controlled half heartbreak that he saw as they pulled apart, and he finds himself nodding in response to his own question as Kurt inclines his head. "I suppose," Kurt says quietly. "What about you?"

Jesse bites his lip – a nervous gesture that he's surprised he's even doing – as he reflects again, this time on Rachel's expression, and the anguish.

He feels a twinge of something he isn't used to feeling.

_Guilt_.

"I suppose."

* * *

><p>I've realised that far too many of these characters knowknow of each other xD

Sooo it's all heating up! Over the next two chapters, stuff is really going to start coming to a head - with some highly awkward moments and interesting revelations!

Till next time,

Zayre


	15. Snow

**AN: **An update! I have no idea when I last updated but it feels like a while so yes. Hello again!

University offers came out today. I shall be doing an arts degree at USYD (University of Sydney) and hopefully, if I somehow manage to do the impossible and work hard enough to get a high distinction average, I'll be able to transfer into arts media comm/law. Maybe. Bearing in mind that Law at USYD (undergrad, anyway), has a cut-off of 99.7.

(Kiiill me).

Also, new glee ep - songs were pretty good, Wemma was decent, but oh gods the Finchel. Don't get me wrong; theoretically I like Finchel. But honestly, the idea that Rachel is pretty much Finn's _raison d'etre_? Please. Just no. Also, I can't help but have some qualms with Rachel's rather bipolar characterisation.

Another thing; the lack of Klaine vaguely bugs me. Not in terms of 'why isn't every episode about Klaine?' - but more just the fact that, unless it's specifically scripted/for a point, there's very little Kurt/Blaine physical connection, if you know what I mean? They don't really seem to interact - Santana and Brittany sit together, they joke together, etc. etc. but, unless it's specific moments (like that ONE look during 'Without You') it's sort of...not there?

**Anyway, moving on to the story:**

Um yes, time is a bit iffy in this chapter. I need to go through and straighten out my exact timeline. Also, the Wes/David scene in this chapter...they're currently my only real source of comedy, just because they're already fucked anyway (or so they think) so life can't really get any worse for them.

Also, a plot point that I might not have made clear; everyone in this world can use magic. Not being able to use magic is like having a disability/loss of sense - it's treated with the same seriousness as blindness or deafness.

As always, reviews are welcome and a million thanks to the lovelies who brighten my mornings with those amazing/detailed/heart-warming words (=

Enjoy!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 15 - Snow<strong>

_**One month later-**_

"But Rach, it's been a whole mo-"

"Just leave it, Finn," Rachel snaps (though as soon as she looks up and sees Finn's face, she wishes she didn't). But she can't stop the words tumbling out of her mouth. "Blaine can talk to whoever he wants, and he can ignore whoever he wants – a decision which, I might add, I fully support – and since when was it any of your business anyway?"

To her mild surprise, Finn doesn't back down. "It's my business when my little brother is miserable, Rachel, and if you bothered to talk to Kurt about something other than work, then you'd realise that too," he retorts.

Rachel bites her lip, feeling very slightly guilty though she immediately tells herself she shouldn't. It's Kurt's fault, after all – Kurt's fault that Blaine isn't talking to him, that she feels more betrayed on her own behalf, and then guilty for that because it's not as if she and Jesse are together or anything…

"Just leave it," Rachel repeats again, before running from their bedroom to what has become a refuge for her and Blaine – the library.

* * *

><p><strong>And another month passes-<strong>

Wes and David look at each other and pause for a moment to appreciate the identical flame of panic flickering in the other's eyes.

"…What did you say, Santana?" Wes asks again, though David is fairly positive he's just asking as a way to stall.

She crosses her arms. "Blaine hasn't talked to the girl in two months," she repeats flatly.

"Right," Wes says. "Err. I'm fairly sure there's medication you can take for suicidal impulses – have you thought about force-feeding them to him?"

Santana shakes her head vigorously, and the lack of response sets alarm bells ringing in David's head.

"Santana, what happened?" David asks quietly. "Santana, what happened?" he repeats when she doesn't immediately respond. "Santana!"

"It doesn't matter!" she snaps. "And if you really want to know, just ask Blaine, why don't you?"

"You-" Wes begins, (face reddening alarmingly considering that he's just recovered from his illness) rising from his seat as though he could actually cross through the Scrying Glass to throttle her. David, who after having to deal with Gabriel for a few days would sooner die himself than be left alone again, grabs his arm quickly.

"Santana," David says calmly (or as calmly as possible), "you do realise that getting married when they aren't talking is sort of a tall order."

She stands suddenly and lunges forwards, almost into the mirror. "Yeah, well, it's not like it fucking _matters_, does it?" she half-screams, and now that she's slightly closer David can see that Santana's eyes are red-rimmed and shadowed, as though she hasn't slept in days.

_Or months._

"Unless you think we have some sort of grand plan to get us out of this, he's fucked anyway!"

She exhales heavily, and her shoulders slump. "At least this way he doesn't have to worry about leading on that son of a bitch or whatever," she mutters.

Wes and David glance at each other again, more bewildered than before. "What…"

"It doesn't matter," she says shortly, and her hands rise to the semi-invisible web of magic that runs from her to the mirror.

"Santana, wai-"

But she's already twisted and _pulled_, and the connection's gone.

"We're fucked?"

"Yes. Yes, we are."

"Brilliant," David sighs. "I'd better start preparing for our funerals, then."

Wes slumps forwards onto the table, head resting on his folded arms. "Don't bother," he says gloomily. "The way things are going, our most loving King is probably just going to feed us to a dragon."

_Dragons. Dragons, dragons, something to do with dragons, but what…_

_Oh, shit_.

"Um…Wes," David hedges. "Speaking of dragons…there's something I sort of need to tell you."

* * *

><p><strong>Probably less than a month later, but Blaine's stopped keeping count because he's never liked the idea of counting down to execution-<strong>

"Get up."

Startled, Blaine looks up from where he sits on his bed, flicking idly through a book – somehow, he hadn't heard the door open, though from the way it seems to have been flung back as far as it can go on its hinges, he's not entirely sure how he couldn't hear it.

"Oh. Good morning, Prince Kurt," Blaine says politely – rather to his satisfaction, Kurt's lips thin, probably at Blaine's formality. "Can I help you?"

Kurt's fingers lock around Blaine's wrist and wrench him forwards off the bed, and it's only through a combination of luck and years of combat training that Blaine doesn't break his nose on the floor.

As it is, he ends up sprawled on the ground, gaping wide-eyed up at Kurt who looms above him, pale eyes burning with a strange, intense fire that turn them a vivid molten quicksilver.

"Get. Up," the other Prince says again, slowly and softly.

This time, Blaine doesn't argue.

* * *

><p>"Oh hey, Bl-"<p>

Rachel blinks as Blaine barely manages a "hey, Rachel, can you, um, hel-" before he's literally _dragged _away by a certain Prince.

Who neither she nor Blaine have spoken to – apart from the passing greeting, or necessitated conversation – for almost three months.

…_What?_

"Now where are _they _going in such a hurry?" drawls someone from behind Rachel.

"If I didn't know better, I'd say they'd have made up," she says absent-mindedly in reply, still staring at the rapidly receding backs, eyebrow raised in confusion.

"Really? Poor Anderson's wrist is going _white_, and that's saying something."

She giggles. "You have a point the-"

_Wait_.

"Wait…"

Rachel pivots around, eyes wide, as she registers that voice.

Sure enough, it's Jesse, lounging against the wall like the born lounger he is, smirking at her with that _bloody _smirk that hasn't changed in all of about ten _years_.

"I…um…I have to work," she says quickly, turning away from him – but a hand reaches out to grasp her arm – not tightly, as she might have expected, but gently and firmly.

"Please stop doing this."

If it wasn't Jesse's voice and the fact that Rachel is fairly positive no one's managed to switch places with him in the last two seconds, Rachel would never believed what she'd just heard. For a moment, she wavers.

_No_.

"Stop doing what?" she asks as calmly as possible, forcing herself to meet his unusually intense gaze as she speaks before averting her eyes as quickly as possible.

The hand on her arm pulls her closer, fast enough that she staggers slightly before finding her footing again. With his other hand, Jesse reaches out to grasp her chin, forcing her to look straight at him.

"You know what I mean," he whispers sadly. "I came back to see you, Rachel-"

"Never mind that I'm _married_ now," Rachel snaps, but the words sound weak even to her.

"Oh come on, sweetheart, you know-_ouch_!"

As he doubles over, gasping, she stalks down the corridor.

Just as she's about to turn the corner, Jesse gasps out her name.

"_What_?" she shouts angrily, not bothering to turn around.

"I just remembered why I came to find you," he drawls – or at least, attempts to, but the fact that he's still wheezing rather ruins it. Rachel sighs, her anger draining away slowly to be replaced by a too-familiar weariness that's becoming harder and harder to shake off.

"Honestly, Jesse, if-" she starts.

"Quinn Fabray's here."

Her heart stops.

"What did you say?" she whisper-asks, so softly that she's not even sure if the words actually emerged from her mouth till Jesse shrugs.

"Quinn. Western Plains Queen Quinn. You know, the pretty girl with the blonde hair…"

"Right." Rachel's mouth is dry. "Do you…know where she is?"

"Oh, your _husband _sent me to find you – so she's probably still with him."

"Right," Rachel says again, starting to walk slowly towards the main hall – she assumes that's where Quinn and Finn and a million other people must be. Finn's not stupid enough to let himself be alone with Quinn, right? He's married, after all – that wouldn't be right.

She brushes away the realisation that she spent years alone with Jesse in that apartment they shared, back when she was studying at the Medics College in Karnath – Jesse wasn't around most of the time anyway, too busy with Queen Cassandra or Alessa or whatever her name was.

_Besides_, Rachel thinks to herself grimly, trying to draw as much comfort from the thought as possible, _he's obviously not interested in girls (me) anymore anyway._

* * *

><p>Quinn hates Lima.<p>

She always has, apart from that year-long period when she'd thought she was going to live here for the rest of her life.

Now, she hates it even more; because riding down those streets that she thought she'd call home, walking through the palace that she'd thought she'd live in…

_It's not that I don't love Puck_, Quinn tells herself, and that's true. She does love him. A lot. And not just for Beth – darling, dearest Beth who she's had to leave behind despite wanting so desperately to bring her daughter along with her – but because he is bizarrely, what she's always needed in a man.

But Finn…

She looks up just as Finn glances away from Mr Schue and towards her, in time for him to send an awkward but open, warm smile her way.

Quinn's got everything. She's gorgeous (and she knows it, not with arrogance but with a quiet surety), she's a Queen, she's got a beautiful child and a husband who loves her.

Rachel of House Berry isn't gorgeous. Pretty, perhaps, but not in the same way Quinn knows she is. Rachel isn't a Queen – not even a Princess, after the High Council of the Western Plains voted in Quinn's favour to become the next ruler. Rachel doesn't have any children, and Quinn's heard the rumours – the rumours that she pretends to find distressing and heartbreaking even as a quiet, guiltily cruel part of her rejoices.

So Quinn smiles graciously when Rachel almost runs into the room, assuring the shorter girl regally that there's really no need to curtsey, no need at all.

And she tries not to let herself feel that twisting tang of envy.

* * *

><p><strong>Out in the middle of nowhere, and Blaine's really starting to freak out now<strong>

The hoverpad, sort of like the ones that they have in Altha but with more Fire woven into the magic web to keep the insides warm, collapses into a small ball in Kurt's hand. Blaine sighs in relief, because the hoverpad was large enough but meant he had to stand a bit closer to Kurt than he really wanted to.

The next minute, he wishes he could snatch the thing from Kurt's hand and fly back to Lima.

Why?

It's _snowing_. And _raining_.

At the same _time_.

Seeing as Blaine hadn't seen snow till he came down here, almost half a year ago, and regarded rain as a necessary interlude between warm, sunny days – something to break the cycle of warmth and niceness just in case one got bored.

If there's one thing Blaine's taking back with him when he returns for execution or imprisonment or whatever his dear brother decides to dish out to him, it's that rain _sucks_.

"We're here," Kurt announces with a certain amount of satisfaction.

"Alright," Blaine says politely, looking around just to make it clear that he's listening (after what happened in his room, he's being very careful of that). Apart from the rain and snow, there's…nothing else in sight. Just a vast, empty plain of snow-covered snow, under which probably lies some sort of ground, on one side. On the other is a cliff-face, one that stretches out as far as Blaine's eye can see. "We're here."

"Um," he says after a moment. "Where exactly is here? And…why exactly is here? I mean, why exactly are we here…?"

Kurt steps forwards till he's close enough that their noses are almost touching. Unnerved by the closeness (seeing as how Blaine's been making a special effort not to have anything to do with Kurt for an absolutely wonderful three months or so), Blaine barely manages to refrain from stepping back.

After a long moment where Kurt seems to be searching Blaine's eyes for something (Blaine doesn't know what), he sighs and steps back.

"Do your worst," Kurt says softly, voice raw and husky.

Blaine blinks. "I'm sorry," he says slowly, "but _what_?"

"I said," Kurt whispers, "do your worst. Hit me, punch me, use magic – try not to touch the nose, thought," he adds, almost as an after thought. "Whatever you want."

"Alright."

Blaine's rather fond of that word, because it actually does nothing rather than stall for time.

Now, if he could just say that word over and over again and stall for enough time (a year, maybe?) to wrap his mind around what's going on…

"Err…why?" he settles for.

Kurt bites his lip. "I know I upset you," he replies flatly. "When you saw me kissing Jesse St James."

"Oh. That."

Truth be told, Blaine isn't actually that annoyed about that anymore. Initially, yes. But it's not Kurt's fault that Blaine is about as much of a commitment-phobe (_not my choice_, he reminds himself bitterly) as Santana is a bitch. If he wants to…Blaine gulps as he forces himself to acknowledge the next thought…seek his pleasure elsewhere…

"'Oh, that'. Is that all you have to say?"

Blaine shrugs. "It's your choice who you ki-kiss," he says as calmly as possible, hating himself for the stutter and the fact that even he doesn't believe those words.

"I don't believe this," Kurt whispers, "I don't believe this!" Blaine winces as Kurt's voice, sharp and shrill, echoes in the vast emptiness – and again, as thin but strong fingers push sharply at his chest, knocking him off-balance and (for the second time in one day) to the ground.

"Hey!" Blaine exclaims, more shocked than hurt. "What was _that _for?"

"_Two months and twenty eight days_!" Kurt screams, glaring down at Blaine as his face flushes darkly. "You don't speak to me for almost _three months _and you have the _nerve _to say 'oh, that'?"

Angry now, Blaine rises to his feet, not bother to brush snow off of himself as he steps forwards. "Oh yeah?" he growls, wanting to grab onto the other boy's shoulders and bloody well _shake _some _sense _into him. "That's rich, coming from the guy who cheats on his _fiancé_!"

This time, he's prepared for when Kurt pushes him backwards, towards the edge of the cliff. "_Fiancé_? Goddess damnit, Blaine, you know very well that I am _not _your fiancé!" He steps forwards again, and Blaine takes a step back – Kurt might be slender, but Blaine's always been intimidated by people taller than him. "In fact, I'd say you're making as much effort as possible _not _to be!"

Kurt laughs bitterly. "In fact, you should be thanking me for doing that – all the more reason for you _not _to agree to marry me, right?"

With a wordless cry of frustration – _how dare he say that, how dare he pretend like he knows what's going on, he has no _idea _how fucking lucky he is! _– Blaine lunges towards Kurt, raising a hand to strike that perfect, irritating, _infuriating _porcelain face. The other boy doesn't even seem to feel the blow, though, only gasping in outrage before swinging his own fist to connect with Blaine's stomach. Blaine barely manages to avoid the blow before a second sends shock waves running down his arm.

There's no magic in this fight, unless pure frustration is an adequate substitute for magic. At some point, Blaine finds himself on the ground, struggling to avoid Kurt's hands while trying to get himself back on his feet. Desperately, he reaches out with all his limbs…

And _pushes_.

Kurt screams.

Not a scream of anger or frustration – but of sheer terror.

Wiping the sweat from his eyes, Blaine stumbles to his feet and steps forwards – only to find himself at the edge of the cliff.

"Oh Gods," Blaine whispers. "Kurt?" he calls out, then again and again in increasing panic. "Kurt? Kurt? _Kurt_?"

"_Here_!"

The word is barely audible but Blaine rushes forwards, kneeling at the precipice and looking down frantically.

Kurt has a foothold in between two rocks, and another on top of a thick, sturdy-looking branch. His fingers are wrapped around another protruding branch. Beneath him is a ledge – one large enough that, even if Kurt didn't have the footholds and that branch to hold onto, he would have been fine.

Sighing in relief, Blaine rocks back onto his heels. "Thank the Gods," he sighs. "I thought you were…"

He shakes his head.

"Well," Kurt snaps, "I will be if you don't, you know, maybe think about _helping _me?"

Blaine frowns. "Do it yourself," he retorts. "It's not like it's rocket science, is it?"

"Blaine," and there's a strange note of panic in Kurt's voice that grates strangely on Blaine's ears, "please help me out of here."

Stubbornly, Blaine shakes his head. "The magic isn't hard," he insists, annoyed at Kurt for being so immature and stupid and _how did he end up Prince Regent if he can't even make a simple thread of Air? _ But at the same time, something about the real, almost painful look of fear on Kurt's face as Blaine gazes down the cliff face.

"…Kurt?" Blaine asks tentatively. "What's wrong?"

Kurt grits his teeth but doesn't answer, instead repeating, "please help me out of here."

Almost about to give in, Blaine bites his lip. "Not until you tell me what's wrong," he insists, knowing that he sounds like a spoilt child for demanding the information, but unwilling to bring himself to care.

"_Fuck you_," Kurt says harshly through gritted teeth. Blaine flinches. "You want to know what's _wrong_?"

"_I haven't been able to use magic for eleven years, that's what's wrong_!"

* * *

><p><strong>Next chapter: stuff goes down.<strong>

**Till next time!**

**Love,**

**Zayre**


	16. Fire, Part 1

**AN: **It...has been a while. Sorry!

Okay, so this was like going to be the massively long chapter that tied everything together.

And then I realised that by massively long it would have been like 10 000 words.

So, this is...sort of like half a chapter? That's how I'm thinking of it as.

HOWEVER, things are coming together (= All of those random characters and interludes that were there for the sake of being there _actually have a purpose_.

(Finally.)

Okay; so this chapter is mostly Blaine/Kurt interactions, and Kurt has a backstory. Apologies in advance if a few things sort of jump out unexpectedly; certain things weren't meant to come up till later so I'd only vaguely been hinting at them, but they've...decided to come up now.

Opinions on _Michael_? I actually thought it was a good episode, holistically - it tied together, plot/music worked...it was good. Apart from Blaine getting...surgery...for a cornea scratch...which apparently hurts like hell but doesn't actually require surgery...Also, I was actually so annoyed when they didn't go to the police. Screw 'let's beat them at Regionals' - what happened was _assault_, and actually _hospitalised _one of them. And I was vaguely disappointed at the Warblers' general apathy. Who cares if it was meant for Kurt? - Kurt was a Warbler too!

However, my heart did in fact break with happiness when Kurt got into NYADA (=

Anyway, that's enough from me - enjoy the chapter!

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 16 - Fire, Part 1<strong>

I haven't been able to use magic for eleven years, that's what's wrong!

_As soon as Kurt says those words, he regrets it, if only because of that stricken look on Blaine's face as Kurt's words echo in the silence around them. _

_There's a moment of panic as Kurt almost worries that Blaine will simply stand there in shock; but almost as soon as the lingering traces of Kurt's voice fade, Kurt feels the warm embrace of Blaine's magic as threads of Air laced around him securely. _

_Automatically, his hand flies to his face, trying to cover it till he remembers just how thorough Rachel is, and he forces his hand to his side._

_He's worried he'll stumble when his feet hit the ground, but the magic stays around him for a moment, supporting his weight till he finds his footing._

_"Sorry," Blaine says quietly._

_Still feeling that sting of fear and sheer bitter anger, Kurt almost lashes out._

_And then he sees the quiet guilt in Blaine's eyes, and he sighs._

_"Let's sit down," he replies wearily, biting down what he'd wanted to say._

* * *

><p>"Dragons," Wes mutters to himself, pacing his room. "Dragons, dragons, dragons."<p>

"Wes, you're going to wear out the marble if you keep doing that," David sighs as he flips a page and scans the contents. "_Eurgh_," he moans. "Dragons _again_. If I hear or see that bloody word ever again I think I'm going to quit this stupid job and join the DHA."

Frowning, Wes pivots on his foot. "I'll have you know," he begins indignantly, "that dragons are highly intelligent and sensitive magical creatures that don't deserve the persecution they get from the _Dragon Hunting Association_-" He breaks off mid-sentence. _Sensitive magical creatures_. That reminds him of something, but he doesn't know…

"Hey, David," Wes says slowly, "what do you think of when I say the words 'magical creatures'?"

David glances up at him. "Blaine," he replies, obviously confused. "Remember when Blaine was doing his college theses last year or something, and they were all he talked about-"

He's cut off as Wes leans down to kiss him enthusiastically. After a moment of shock and _I thought Wes was the careful one_, he tries to return the kiss, but Wes has already leaped back, eyes shining.

"You," Wes says reverently, "are _brilliant_." He leans down to kiss David on the cheek and practically bounds away before David can react.

"…Right…" David replies belatedly as the door slams shut. "I…love you too…?" Shaking his head, he turns back to his paperwork.

He opens the next folder and leans back with a groan of despair.

_Fucking dragons_.

* * *

><p>They sit at the edge of the cliff (after Blaine, splaying his hand almost absent-mindedly, clears off a patch of metre-deep snow) in complete silence.<p>

"Take as long as you want," Blaine had said quietly when they sat down, and Kurt doesn't need the other prince to finish that sentence because he knows how it ends – _because like it or not, you have to talk_.

It's been about an hour. Maybe an hour and a half, and Kurt wouldn't blame Blaine if he was starting to regret what he said. Every now and then, Kurt senses Blaine glancing at him – but whenever Kurt looks over to meet Blaine's eyes, the other boy's gaze shifts almost immediately.

It's not that he's just going to not explain. He knows he has to, and he knows he should have before. Right now though, anger at Blaine – for leaving him down that damn cliff till he was _forced _to say what he did, for being such a sanctimonious prick wallowing in self-pity after that kiss with Jesse – is warring with guilt.

He should have explained earlier, he realises. And he's sure that Blaine's probably feeling terrible right now (_he deserves it_, Kurt can't help himself thinking).

But truth be told, Kurt simply wasn't sure _how _to tell him. It wasn't like losing his sight or his hearing. It was like losing his sense of smell; something less noticeable, and yet equally as devastating.

As for the…other thing…

(That's out of the question, anyway. He'd never had any intention of telling anyone about that, let alone Blaine.)

_Though Rachel wouldn't say I've lost anything at all_, Kurt thinks, though without much heat. In some ways, she's right. He's aware that Rachel's simply waiting for him to 'grow some balls'.

Carole still insists on telling him that it's not his fault, that it's a normal reaction.

Kurt can't help but find himself weak.

"You know how my Mum died."

Blaine looks across at him, eyes widening slightly in surprise – surprise that Kurt actually spoke, or surprise at the question? – before turning his head away again, staring down the cliff-face at the snow-white forest beneath them.

"A politician's gift," Blaine acknowledges with a slight shrug. "That's what Gabriel called it – a politician's gift. A pretty box and shiny jewels with death inside."

For some reason, the fact that Gabriel and Blaine talked about it is strangely disquieting…but Kurt pushes that aside.

"Yeah," Kurt replies quietly. "That. Fire-snake venom that she inhaled, which killed her straight away. But…" He swallows. "I suppose the rest of us weren't so lucky."

Blaine shifts slightly, opening his mouth to say something, but Kurt doesn't want to hear whatever he has to say. "The venom reacted with…her…magic," he cuts in as neutrally as possible, "and, well…there went the court room."

There's an audible gasp from beside Kurt. "I didn't know that," Blaine breathes, sounding horrified.

Kurt isn't surprised; it wasn't knowledge they'd wanted to let out, after all, considering just who the casualties were. No foreign dignitaries, thankfully, but something like that would equal political weakness in anyone's eyes, no matter who died.

"It must have been…"

_Horrible. _

_Kurt wants to shut his eyes, but he can't. So he sees it all, feels it all, hears it all, smells it all, _senses _it all._

_The mangled, torn bodies and blackened bones of the corpse right at the centre, partially obscured by a veil of dust and smoke and what Kurt knows can't be his tears. _

_The dampness of blood on his body – he doesn't know how much is his and how much is that of his mother, his father, anyone else. The thick, muggy aftertaste of fire. Pain everywhere except the right side of his face._

_A woman's scream saturated with agony and loss as, leg trapped under a huge dark-steel beam, she slices _down _with a shaking hand. The queerly harsh mix of an inhalation and a sob when she finally pulls away from the wreckage and stares almost uncomprehendingly at the blood pouring out from the un-cauterised stump. The sound of _names_, names that Kurt doesn't recognise, being screamed and shouted and whispered._

_Burning flesh, a sickeningly pleasant, familiarly unfamiliar smell. The coppery tang of blood, stinging one of his eyes. The sweet, sugary scent of fire-snake venom. The moist saltiness of tears and sweat. _

_The _emptiness _as life magic simply dissipates with its owners' deaths. The disorienting confusion of magic/fire-snake venom blended into the air like a bad cocktail. The frantic weaves of Fire and Air and Water to heal and lift and clear away death and find life. The reek of _death_, and the wrongness of _magic_._

_There's blood spattering Kurt's new silk shirt, and that's all he can think about as, held tightly in his father's arms, he's carried from the room and a group of medics rush to his side._

"It was."

"So did the explosion do something to your magic? Is…" Blaine swallows heavily. "Is it just…_gone_?" He whispers that last word, almost horrified at the idea.

"_No_!" Kurt exclaims, stomach turning at the notion of his magic just not…_being_. "No. At least…I don't think it is."

That's a lie. He can feel it, flickering in his bones and through his blood late at night. Sometimes, it's in the nightmares of the fire and falling beams and the screaming; pulling at him, an almost irresistible _urge _to simply let it free. Often it's all Kurt can do to bite his lip and dig his nails into the palms of his hands and try to remember that _he's _the one in control.

(And he tries to forget the face, the glamour that only Rachel can bear to place because what's underneath makes Finn vomit and Carole tear up, that foreign magic that sits like a very slightly itchy sweater against his lifeblood.)

_"There's nothing we can do," the medic says simply and almost impassively, though the gentle warmth of the man's hand on Kurt's thin shoulder betrays a certain amount of pity._

_Kurt hates pity._

_Beside him, Rachel gasps. "That's _impossible_!" she insists, with all the authority of an eight year old know-it-all. "I mean, there has got to be something you can do, surely?"_

Shut up_, he thinks._

_"If it was a normal injury, fine," is the grim reply. "But nerve trauma like this from magic…? It'll be hard enough developing a glamour strong enough to cover it, let alone actually reconstructing the skin itself-"_

_"Glamour?"_

_The medic stops mid-sentence._

_"What do you mean, glamour?"_

_Everyone in the room looks towards Kurt when he says that word, and suddenly the medic isn't looking so much impassive and professional as he is slightly ashamed and compassionate. And _Rachel_, even _Rachel _is biting her lip, slight guilt in her eyes…_

_"Let me see," Kurt whispers, pushing himself out of the armchair and barely managing to avoid stumbling over his own feet. He's not used to walking right now, and magic can't heal muscle fatigue._

_The man shares a glance with another dressed in the white, red-collared robes of the medics; a small, slender woman that looks too much like-_

_"I want to see," he says in a stronger voice, turning his face away so he can't see the woman. _

_"Your Highness…"_

_Kurt's eyes narrow. "Let. Me. See," he says, trying to imitate that dangerous tone his normally mild-mannered father uses when he wants his way. Though it probably doesn't have the same effect in Kurt's high-pitched voice, the man sighs in resignation and makes a complicated gesture with one of his hands._

_Kurt's reflection appears before him, shimmering slightly. His eyes are barely visible under layers and layers of white bandage, symbols for strength and binding written into the fabric. "Can I take this off?"_

_"Your Highness, we wouldn't advise-"_

_"_Please_."_

_He hears footsteps as Rachel runs from the room, retching. The female medic has turned away, and from the corner of his eye Kurt can see her features warped with disgust._

_Only the man meets his eyes, and Kurt is dully relieved to see no horror there. Just pity, which is almost as bad._

_"Is it going to get any better?" he asks at the same time as the medic says "it's not going to get any better."_

_"The bruises on the left side will heal, of course," the medic adds, gesturing vaguely. "But the right…" He shrugs. "His Majesty has ordered a glamour to be designed for it, something that won't simply fade when it comes into contact with the magical imprints the explosion left. That's the best we can do…"_

"Kurt? Kurt, is something wrong?"

As Kurt looks at Blaine, the other boy leans over to place his hand over Kurt's. The warmth of the slightly callused skin against Kurt's freezing fingers feels comforting and soothing – but strangely oppressive.

He sighs as he tries frantically to remember what they were talking about. "I just can't," Kurt says simply, for lack of anything better to say. Blaine's eyes are warmer than the palm of his hand, and there's concern in the green-hazel gaze but no _pity_.

That makes Kurt want to smile, and so he tries to be as discreet and inoffensive as possible when he pulls his hand away from underneath Blaine's. Almost unconsciously, his hand rises to brush his right cheek, feeling the smooth curve of skin beneath his fingers. "I don't know why," _lie_, "I just…"

Blaine frowns suddenly.

"Kurt," he says slowly, "I think there's something on your…" He leans forwards and.

Places.

His.

Hand.

Against.

Kurt's.

Cheek.

Frantically, Kurt pushes Blaine's hand away and throws himself backwards – but only to come up against a metre-high wall of snow at his back. And as he sees the dawning realisation in Blaine's eyes, he realises it's too late.

"Kurt, what's wrong with your face?"

Kurt bites his lip. "Nothing," he answers tersely.

"Really," Blaine says quietly. "Then why is there a glamour thicker than my eyebrows on it?"

_…Shit_.

* * *

><p>Jesse walks into the nearest empty room he can find. It looks like a guest bedroom, sparsely furnished and with a colour scheme that would probably make Kurt cry.<p>

Making his way to a hard-backed wooden chair, he closes his eyes and leans back, taking some sort of perverse comfort from the hard edges digging into his back. There's something nicely orienting about knowing that there are, strange as it seems, people in the world who have to suffer from un-cushioned chairs.

He's vaguely aware that some people might not have 24 hour chair access at all. That's a fairly discomforting thought, and so he pushes it away immediately.

"You don't have to stand," Jesse says conversationally without turning around. "Come sit down." When he senses a slight shift behind him and feels slight surprise in the magic-emotion aura that the idiot can't control, he sighs dramatically. "Oh, come now – we both know that I know who you are. As soon as I heard that Quinn was here, I knew you would be with her."

There's a moment's pause. "I prefer to stand here, thanks," is the only reply, with an admirable lack of annoyance in the tone.

"What a lurker. Are you hiding behind the door too, or am I just going to see a blur of light if I turn around?"

"St James…" This time, he's obviously annoyed, and Jesse should know better than to push his luck but honestly, Lima is _cold_. And he misses Carmel and its infinitely more charming, advanced society of benevolent dictatorship.

He says as much. "Lima is _cold_. And any form of democratic government is a waste of time. Also, I have been here for three whole months. Or more. You _owe _me."

"Did you do what I sent you here to do?"

Jesse rolls his eyes. "Firstly, that sounds like a bad line out of a clichéd book. Considering it's you, it probably is."

"St James."

"Oh fine. Secondly, _yes_, though honestly I don't know why you needed me. Blaine of House Anderson is a nice kid, but he's not stupid, and not suicidal."

"That's good to know," the other man mutters under his breath, "because right now he's all we have." Jesse has the distinct impression he wasn't meant to hear that. "And we were already working with that assumption anyway, St James," the non-visible figure continues in a louder tone. "So, unless you've-"

"They haven't talked for three months, thanks to my divinely wonderful intervention." _Though neither had I and Rachel_. He frowns, remembering the look of _I-am-going-to-resolve-this-if-it-involves-murder _on Kurt's. "Though that might change," he acknowledges with a wince he doesn't let himself show.

" Anyway, how was spying in Altha?"

He hears the other man step forwards quickly, and a sharp intake of breath. "How did you know about that?"

"The fact that your name is currently circulating around the wonderful world of bounty hunters is a fairly strong indication," Jesse points out, rolling his eyes _again_. He's wishing with all his heart now that he could be back in Carmel, because (and maybe this has something to do with the fact that most people don't dare _look _at Jesse, let alone _speak _to him) there seem to be a lot of stupid people here."And don't' look at me like that," he adds without turning around to see just how he's being regarded, "everyone knows how tight Gabriel is with those charming fellows. So? Spying? Good?"

He hears a loud exhale; the sort of _I cannot do this anymore _that Jesse always finds himself faced with whenever he enters into polysyllabic conversation with darling Finnegan.

"We're screwed. We're so totally, completely, irredeemably screwed."

Jesse uncrosses and re-crosses his legs.

And then he does it again.

And again.

Lather, rinse, repeat.

"Brilliant," he settles for. "And now, Evans, time to go find your darling half-sister. Methinks Quinn, you, and I need to speak. No, I refuse to get up. Yes, you are getting her. Now. Go."

"There's a good boy," he murmurs when the door slams shut.

_We're screwed_.

_Well, Blaine_, Jesse thinks, leaning back into the centering comfort of his uncomfortable chair, _seems that you're turning into everyone's last hope, so please don't do anything stupid._

* * *

><p>"Please, Kurt," Blaine says softly for what feels like the hundredth time, eyes wide and pleading as he stares into Kurt's blue-green eyes and tries as hard as possible to not shift on the uncomfortably hard, rough rock beneath him. He's starting to regret clearing the snow, because he's already wet from that fight he and Kurt had, and he's also cold and, quite frankly, rather shoddy at weaving Fire in a way that doesn't blow things up.<p>

As it is, though, his ass is probably going to be sore for days now, so Kurt had _better give in_.

(He's not entirely sure what he's pleading for Kurt to do, but _something _would be nice, certainly.)

Technically, he doesn't really need Kurt's permission; now that he actually knows the glamour is there, covering the right side of Kurt's face, it'd be the work of ten seconds, maybe fifteen, to unpick it.

But that would be rude. He thinks. Actually, probably. Definitely. Also, he wants to know what's underneath. He doesn't necessarily want to _see _it.

It's not that he's uncomfortable with…icky stuff. Punishment back home (_up north_, he tries to remind himself) mostly consists of increasingly inventive ways of causing pain. And as Prince, he has to watch it all.

(Sometimes administer it, but they're talking about Kurt right now and there's not enough room in his head for both their problems.)

He's not particularly worried about his own reaction, but he's worried about Kurt's.

"It…It's not pretty."

Like earlier, when Kurt had broken what was probably only an hour's worth of silence but seemed more like thirty five with that question, Blaine shifts slightly, surprised. "I didn't think it would be," he manages as gently as possible.

"After the explosion…" Kurt swallows heavily. "It was my present she was opening, so I was…"

_Excited. Kurt likes pretty things, and the box is absolutely _gorgeous_. Delicately carved gold and silver, that makes Kurt determined to learn craft magic so he can make one of his own. And the gemstones are to _die _for._

_(Even in the highly emotional/traumatised state Kurt's mind is in during this flashback, he can't help but cringe at the terribly unamusing irony of that.)_

_"Kurt!"_

_Though Kurt hears his Dad calling him, he tries to ignore it. "Kurt, sweetie," his Mum says firmly, though her smile gives away the lie in her tone. "Your father is calling you."_

_"But _Mum_…" Kurt whines, and she laughs._

_"Whatever's in here isn't going to run away," she points out. "Now go, dear."_

_Kurt's halfway to his Dad when he turns to glance at his mother._

_That's around the time the world explodes into a swell of fire and smoke._

It takes Blaine a moment of scrabbling for words before he finally manages to construct something that doesn't involve him crying for eight year old Kurt or giving the other boy the biggest hug he can manage. "Is your right eye…does it work?" he finishes lamely.

Kurt smiles. "Yes, my vision is perfectly fine," he says lightly, though Blaine can hear the unspoken _but that's all that is_ underneath the words. "It's just…it's not pretty," the Prince repeats. "I can't…All the nerves are burnt out, apparently. I can't feel anything. It's not so bad," Kurt adds, almost defensively, though Blaine hasn't said anything. "I can't feel anything, sure, but I can't feel any _pain_, which is good. And the glamour is _good_. It's just…weird, when I touch it and I can feel skin beneath my fingers, but I can't feel…fingers on my skin, if that makes sense?"

"Can I…can I touch it?"

Kurt's head stops moving mid-shake – he obviously pre-emptively anticipated what Blaine was going to ask – and he looks at Blaine, lips parted in silent astonishment.

_That's a good look on- oh, _shut up_, Anderson._

"Touch – can I?" he repeats, belatedly aware of just how prehensile that sounds. Thankfully, Kurt seems too genuinely surprised that Blaine wants to touch and not see to actually notice the decidedly grammatically incorrect nature of what Blaine said.

"Um…" Kurt mumbles, "…if you want."

Slowly, Blaine edges closer towards Kurt, till their faces are barely a quarter of a metre apart. As he raises his hand, he realises it's shaking.

_Stop it_, he tells his hand. Rather unsurprisingly, the shaking only gets worse; but Kurt's closed his eyes, and though his facial muscles are relaxed Blaine can see the slight tremor of the Prince's pale eyelids.

Somehow, that makes him feel better.

Gently, so gently he can barely feel anything, his fingertips touch the glamour. For a moment, he's impressed at Kurt's lack of reaction (till he remembers that Kurt can't actually feel his touch.)

Immediately, the magic jumps out at him; the weaves, the intricate threads and patterns; and Blaine has a sudden desire to kiss whoever designed this glamour. The amount of effort the designer must have put into this would have been immense, and designing magic like this would be a Talent in its own right.

It's just so _real_, and so _deep_. If Blaine ignores the magic, then he can feel skin under his hand. The coldness of winter over the warmth of human flesh. The high cheekbones. Fine eyelashes that catch slightly at his skin.

But when he allows the layers of magic to surge through the glamour and into his veins through his fingers, he can _sense _a perfect simulation of nerves, of blood and cartilage over strong, slender bone, covered in flesh and a beautiful mesh of Earth and Water to make porcelain skin that's so real in its unreality that Blaine wants to cry. This wouldn't take fifteen seconds to unpick, more five, because everything's blended together so _perfectly _that one little glitch would shatter it.

"Rachel puts it on," Kurt volunteers unexpectedly.

_Retracting that desired kiss, right now_.

"She didn't design it, though," Kurt adds, and Blaine heaves a silent sigh of relief. "A team of medics came up with the concept, and one of Dad's old friends did the work for free. After that it was just a matter of teaching the weaves and…" Kurt's jaw clenches under Blaine's fingers, leaving him with a curious tingling sensation as the magic shifts and changes to adapt to the movement. "And finding someone willing to do it without throwing up."

On an impulse, Blaine reaches out his free hand to take Kurt's right hand in his again (desperately hoping that Kurt doesn't pull away this time). "What do you mean?" he asks gently, interlocking their fingers.

Kurt shrugs, eyes still closed. "The glamour has to be put on layer by layer," Kurt says dismissively, but Blaine can hear the strain in his voice. "Bone smoothened, muscle, cartilage, veins, blood, flesh, skin…the works. Thankfully, it only needs to be renewed every twelve days, and since it's virtually undetectable and impossible to tamper with without physical contact, it's not _too _much of a hassle, but…It's not pretty," Kurt ends up saying, for the third time.

_I'm sure it isn't pretty_, because the amount of magical trauma required to cut off feeling to half a face is substantial, and Kurt would have been eight and young and everything would have been going his way till he lost his mother, his magic, and…

"I mean," the boy says, and Blaine suddenly really, really wants to (but he won't because _awkward_) place a finger over those lips, to feel them move under his skin, feel the magic buzz and hum, "it's not like I'm insecure or anything. It's hideous, and that's how it is."

"That's…blunt," Blaine settles for, rather taken aback.

Kurt shrugs. "It's true. And no matter what my therapist said, truth is important."

Blaine sort of really wishes they hadn't just been fighting, because hugging Kurt is so on the list of _things I want to do _right now. "Oh hush," he scolds the other boy absent-mindedly, "you're gorgeous." He wants to add _with or without the glamour_, but he hasn't really seen Kurt without the glamour, though that shouldn't change anything… "Actually," Blaine amends, "make that beautiful."

When there's no response of any sort for a few seconds, Blaine looks away from the particularly fascinating blend of genuine artificial hair follicles that fade into real hair just above Kurt's ear to find the boy staring directly at him, steely-eyed.

Blaine frowns. "Is something wrong?"

"Look, I'm sorry Blaine, but…you're sort of blowing hot and cold, if you know what I mean? I mean, you agree to marry me-"

"Not in so many words," Blaine adds hurriedly.

Kurt's eyes harden. "That's my point," he snaps, turning his face away from Blaine's hand. Tellingly, though, he doesn't unlock his fingers from Blaine's, where their hands are joined, resting on the gap between their knees. They've sat closer together before, but now, in the empty, snow-coated wasteland around them, Blaine feels a painful sense of closeness with his sort-of fiancé.

Painful, because he promised Santana he would be careful. He promised Wes and David he'd keep trying.

But now, he's finding it harder and harder to distinguish between _careful _and _deceitful_; between _recklessness _and _honour_.

"Kurt, I…you know what, _fuck this_," Blaine hisses.

Kurt rears back, obviously affronted, and his hand slips from Blaine's grip. "I'm sorry," he begins stiffly. "Is something-"

"_No_!" Panicked, Blaine shakes his head adamantly, reaching forward to recapture Kurt's hand in a move that probably wouldn't make it onto any respectable etiquette manual. "No. I wasn't talking about you."

_Fuck this_. He means fuck blood magic, fuck everything, because if five months haven't yielded a solution, he sincerely doubts another one or two till Kurt strangles him out of impatience will help.

He's going to die anyway, but he's not going to lie anymore.

"Kurt," he says quietly, reaching forward to cup a pale, smooth cheek in his free hand, but he's forgotten what comes next.

_I like you._

He takes a shuddering breath, and when he opens his eyes, all the indecision has seeped from him.

"Kurt," Blaine whispers, "the truth is…"

* * *

><p><strong>TBC in the second half of this chapter.<strong>


	17. Fire, Part II

**Okay firstly I AM SO SO SO SORRY PLEASE FORGIVE ME IT WON'T HAPPEN AGAIN.**

**I know I promised this chapter like 2 weeks ago and once again SORRY. I got a new computer which didn't have Microsoft Word (which isn't actually really an excuse) and then I went to Brisbane (up the coast) for a week. WHICH STILL ISN'T AN EXCUSE.**

**Ahem.**

**Life is going alright. University's starting in two days, and I'm both excited and terrified that no one will want to be my friend (sad but true.) I'm teaching music now! - flute, viola, piano, violin, saxophone. It's going interestingly - I have this munchkin of a 4 year old piano student who is adorable but utterly frustrating.**

**ONTO GLEE STUFFS:**

**Anyway, so. ****Well, what did you guys think of the half-finale? Just going to say, that Karofsky scene actually made me cry. I was like '...okay, I'm impressed.' And then a whole bunch of other scenes happened and there went my impressed-ness. Personally, while I do want to know what happened with Quinn, I...don't...really...care? Like, she's not dead. They're probably (hopefully) not going to permanently cripple her. And her character has been so erratic that it's hard to really feel this sense of 'Dear gods please in the name of all that is holy I want to know what will happen, NOW.' **

**Also, one other thing: I'm just going to disclaim this by saying that a) I have absolutely nothing against faberry and b) I vaguely passively ship it (in the sense that I'll read fics if people link me but I won't actively go looking for them) but...okay, I am actually really starting to get annoyed by the amount of Tumblr faberry shippers who are just like 'this is canon you guys are stupid for not seeing it'. I can possibly understand 'it makes sense why we ship it you guys are stupid for not seeing that' and definitely 'you guys are stupid for hating on us because we ship it' but...honestly? I have seen posts that actually make me feel like there's some sort of civil rights movement going on. This idea of 'we be the mistreated underdogs who are striking back for our RIGHTS'.**

**...I don't know, what do you guys think? Of course, I'm well aware that there are some amazingly lovely shippers out there (there are many, in fact) who really don't deserve to be lumped in with those who be pushy and terrifying, but...I don't know, this is coming from a passive _supporter_. I'm curious to get some other opinions.**

**BACK TO THE POINT OF THIS: **

**I've given you a 5 and a half thousand word chapter this time to make up for my way-too-long absence. It's not a very GOOD 5 and a half thousand word chapter but we can't have everything. **

**Okay, so we've got around 3-4 more chapters before the end of this arc and the commencement of the FINAL ARC OF THIS STORY. BE EXCITED. Also in exchange for perhaps not giving some of you what you wanted this second half of the chapter, I promise - PROMISE - to do (attempt and fail) a chapter of smut between our darling lead darlings. It will probably be really bad, I am warning you. I will probably write warnings for the fact that it's going to be terribly written. But hey, I'm going to try. Because you guys are ridiculously patient and I love you all muchly (=**

**Hopefully this chapter will give you all a real sense of what's going on. If not, it's definitely my fault because clarity and me are clearly not soulmates, and so feel free to pm/review/tumblr me anything. I repeat, anything. Thanks in advance for reading and to the peeps who reviewed last chapter!**

**Enjoy (=**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 17 - Fire Part 2<strong>

_**In the middle of nowhere**_

I-_argh_!"

Blaine pulls away so quickly he almost falls sideways and off the cliff, raising his hands to his head in a futile attempt at dulling the pain searing through his skull. With every ounce of concentration he can muster, he tugs at the still air, clumsily pushing himself backwards and away from danger, head almost hitting the wall of snow behind them.

_BLAINE?_

"_Holy fucking shit_!" Blaine hisses, barely managing to get the words out before another wave of agony throbs in his head, sending shock waves down his entire body. "_Fuck, fuck, fuck_-"

"Blaine?" Kurt sounds worried and Blaine is about to lift his head up to attempt to force some sort of reassurance past lips twisted in a grimace of pain, when…

_BLAINE? CAN YOU HEAR ME?_

A strange and rather unnerving buzzing sound fills his mind, like someone's released a whole hundred hives of bees that have been lurking somewhere in the crevices of Blaine's skull. _BLAINE?__ The_ buzzing intensifies as the words vibrate through him, and he growls soundlessly.

Not _now, _surely. His luck is bad, and life has no sense of timing, but _seriously_…?

_?_

"Blaine? Blaine, are you okay?"

Kurt again, now sounding closer to terrified than merely concerned. Blaine's heart aches suddenly (though he's not sure if that's not just for the same reason as why everything else aches.)

**_YOU'RE SHOUTING, YOU IDIOT!_**Blaine thinks as strongly and as loudly as he can, and he is not at all guilty about the twinge of sadistic satisfaction when he hears a quiet _fucking hell, ouch_ before a rather more bearable _sorry, Blaine_ is his reply.

**_What do you want?_** he thinks – wincing very slightly as the buzzing intensifies slightly, like some sort of white noise that's soundless to anyone but him – before a cool hand touches his face.

Blaine looks up to see Kurt's pale eyes wide with anxious fear. _I need to talk to you._ "I'm sorry, Kurt," he says quickly, forcing a smile onto his face. "It was just a…a headache," is the best he can come up with, and it sounds lamely unconvincing even to him. **_I'm sort of, you know, _busy_?_**

_Well, I need to talk to you_ "Blaine," Kurt says quietly, hand still against Blaine's cheek. "No more lying, please." **_I'M BUSY_**

_OUCH do you really have to shout, you idiot? I need your help, Blaine. Please_.

Smiling, Blaine leans forwards to meet Kurt's eyes intently, forcing them to widen into what Santana deemed with disgust his 'puppy-dog look'. **_Go away_.**

_Blaine, I'm begging you. This is important._

**Fine.** "I'm fine," Blaine repeats as he shuffles closer to Kurt, till their faces are barely inches apart. _Thank you_.

He leans forwards and presses his lips softly against the smooth skin of Kurt's forehead, feeling the glamour sing out to the corner of his mouth touching the fire-ravaged side of Kurt's face. **_Fuck you_**. This close to Kurt, Blaine can feel the quickening beat of his heart, the blood moving just slightly more quickly under pale skin and through fragile veins.

Kurt exhales heavily, a puff of warm air tickling the skin of Blaine's neck, as Blaine reaches his arms around to pull Kurt towards him. He moves his mouth down to just above Kurt's ear.

"Sorry," he whispers, just before his fingers press down into the back of Kurt's neck, hitting _that_ nerve – oh yes, right _there_, just like _that_ – and with a slight twitch of his fingers (a pinch of Air and the smallest hint of raw magic twisted in) the slender boy slumps into Blaine's arms.

He pulls Kurt onto his lap, carefully repositioning those pale limbs so that when he wakes, he won't suffer from knotted muscles or blood-deprived legs. Despite Kurt having the advantage in height, he's startlingly light; almost insubstantial.

Blaine's arms tighten around the other Prince. He tells himself that it's because he doesn't want Kurt to catch cold.

(He's good at lying to himself.)

Shifting his legs slightly, already feeling the onset of numbness in his legs, Blaine looks out over the cliff and closes his eyes.

**_What do you want, Wes?_**

* * *

><p><em><strong>Lima<strong>_

Quinn has always liked lists. Also cataloguing things. And databases. She knows that databases are not the run-of-the-mill passion of the year, but she likes them.

Also lists. If Quinn hadn't been ambushed – propositioned, she likes to think of it as – by the call of Destiny and Duty to lead the portion of the rather inferior rest of the human race who lived in the Western Plains, she rather thinks she wouldn't have minded being one of life's observers.

Failing that, an accountant.

And so, she observes, chin raised and eyes cool and distant.

Members of her delegation and staff linger, some deep in conversation with each other or with the minor nobles who always tend to over-populate castles. The pale skin of the natives clashes bizarrely with the hint of caramel in the complexion of Quinn's subjects, reminding her once more of just how unlike a Western Plainer she actually looks.

There are orbs of fire hanging in the air, high above their heads, though there's weak light streaming from the large glass windows. She's heard that winter this year hit the Low Lands hard; it's ostensibly why she's here, to discuss exports of certain grains – namely corn – and other dietary requirements that can't be saved from magic. Sure enough, when she reaches out, Quinn can feel the reinforced and strengthened warming charms inlaid into the wall.

The walls of the waiting room are a soft white (trust Kurt to give white a tone) and the floor is covered in thick pearl-grey carpet that clings to the heels of Quinn's boots when she shifts her weight.

Quinn, contrary to both her colouring and what she doesn't doubt people think of her, _hates _pale colours.

Quinn also doesn't like waiting.

Quinn can't stay still for more than a minute without fidgeting, without some minute movement unless her brain is significantly engaged in some sufficiently interesting task.

Quinn really likes pacing.

Quinn, however is far too well-bred to pace like she really, really wants to. So she excuses the hint of ice in her tone when she _does not snap _a curt "I'm waiting for Kurt" (Puck would probably say something about the pun but she isn't that immature) when Finn rather tentatively asks her if she wouldn't rather take afternoon tea with the rest of the nobles in the castle.

What she _doesn't _excuse is that little brown-haired brat wrapping her arm around one of Finn's, face set in a frown. "You really don't need to be so rude, Quinn," she says primly. Quinn wants to slap her, but remembers what happened the last time she did that and decides that she's not really in the mood for bonding.

_Whatever_, she thinks. "I'm terribly sorry, Finn," she says sweetly with a sugary smile, and to her immense satisfaction, he flinches noticeably, though Rachel, who grins rather improperly in satisfaction, doesn't seem to notice her husband's discomfort.

"Right…um," he stammers, "t-that's fine, um….sure you don't want tea?" he asks again, almost pleadingly.

Quinn sighs. "I'll wait," she repeats, turning pointedly away from him and looking up at an exquisite painting of Kurt's mother that hangs over an ornate fireplace etched with complicated whirls and spokes. She studies the painting with exaggerated interest till she hears footsteps behind her, signalling that Finn (and hopefully his wife) has (finally) given up.

She's fairly familiar with this room, though normally she never has to suffer the indignity of waiting here for as long as she is this time; it's always Kurt that greets her with a smile and a personal escort to her rooms, which are always different (but wonderful) every time she comes.

"Why isn't Kurt here?" Quinn asks abruptly, addressing the question to a tall man who is leaning against a wall; he's a few years older than her by the looks of things, with the amulet around his neck signifying that he's the first son and heir of a House (she can't bring herself to care which one.)

Rather unsurprisingly, it's Rachel who answers the question, stepping forwards quickly. "You can't blame him," she says loudly, tone accusing. "You didn't even tell us you were coming. We didn't even know till Brittany scried it an hour before you arrived!"

_Well_, Quinn thinks, _good_.

Rachel frowns. "Wait, um, why _are _you here?"

Widening her eyes innocently, Quinn smiles disingenuously. "Corn exports," she says sweetly.

The brunette's eyes narrow.

"But-"

"Quinn."

Both Quinn and Rachel turn to see Mr Schue standing in one of the smaller doorways; he offers Quinn a brief smile, and she smiles back warmly – the first sincere smile of the day, she supposes.

"Hey, Mr Schue," she says softly, stepping forwards to hug him lightly. "How are you?"

He shrugs. "Same old, same old." Taking a step back, Mr Schue's eyes roam her face for a long moment. "You're looking happy, Quinn."

_Happier than last year_, is the unspoken addition, but Quinn finds that she doesn't really mind.

"I am."

Her old teacher smiles again. "That's good," he replies. "Anyway," he continues, glancing briefly at Rachel before looking back to Quinn, "Sam is looking for you."

"Oh," she frowns, looking away for a moment. "But I'm waiting for Kurt and Prince Blaine…" She trails off as she sees Mr Schue tilt his head slightly – questioningly – and Rachel's shoulders moving very slightly.

"Is something wrong?" Quinn asks slowly, and the pair freeze.

"Nothing!" Rachel says loudly and quickly, grabbing Quinn's arm and practically shoving her towards the door. "Anyway, you mustn't keep Sam waiting, Kurt will still be here when you're finished, I hope you have a good conversation!"

As Quinn barely manages to keep from stumbling out the door, she hears Rachel's obviously meant-to-be-subtle whisper of "_sorry, Mr Schue, but who is Sam_?"

* * *

><p><strong>In the middle of nowhere, and in a room in Altha (all at the same time)<strong>

**_What do you want, Wes?_**

Wes is rather taken aback by the almost-_growl _in Blaine's thought, but can't bring himself to care quite enough to ask, when there are a lot of other things he's already got lined up.

Such as: _Blaine, what did you do your college thesis paper on again?_

Silence.

_You know, last year or the year before when you wouldn't stop bugging us to proofread it until Santana threatened to burn it?_

More silence.

_Err…Blaine? Are you still alive? _No response, and Wes begins to freak out. _Blaine, please don't die, that would be ridiculously awkward, and _annoying_, and are you going to say-_

**_…Wes, can I just clarify something?_**

_Oh, brilliant. You're alive. _

**_Wes._**

_Because really, the paperwork involved? Poor David would _die_._

**_Wes._**

_I mean, I know I'm meant to do the paperwork but someone has to do the thinking, and-_

**_WES._**

…Ouch_. What?_

**_ Let me get this straight. You just fucking ruined – I mean, interr – never mind that, you fucking _invade my mind from the other side of the continent _to ASK ABOUT MY COLLEGE THESIS?_**

Wes exhales heavily and rolls his eyes.

_Blaine._

**_What?_**

_Answer the fucking question._

* * *

><p><em><strong>Lima<strong>_

They don't speak as they walk, but occasionally Sam sees his sister glance over at him from the corner of his eye, and sometimes her mouth opens as if she's going to say something.

"Sam-"

He shakes his head firmly and her mouth clamps shut, lips thinning in displeasure. _Not safe_, he thinks as loudly as he can, though he knows she isn't a telepath. He's probably being paranoid, anyway; but he's spent too much time in the Sun Kingdoms (at least, till he was chased out), and he's vaguely aware that, like Jesse said, there's probably a rather sizeable bounty on his head.

And on what he knows.

(And what he can do.)

Panic rises up within him.

_He crouches as low as he can get on the rough, slanted surface of the roof, trying desperately not to whimper in pain as the deep gashes that have sliced his shirt to pieces grate agonisingly against one another._

_The sound of footsteps becomes louder, and he can feel the paved ground vibrate softly with the sudden presence of strong mages, filling the streets. _Don't notice me_, he thinks as fiercely as possible. His hand goes up to clutch the pendant around his neck, the one Puck always uses as evidence that Sam is gay._

_(He's not, and he has no idea why everyone keeps insisting that he bleaches his hair.)_

_His fingers run over the stylised guitar, painstakingly carved out of a smooth disk of solid gold, and the patterns distract him till a calm, clear voice cuts through the murmurs and shouts of the searchers._

_ "Where is he?"_

_The street falls silent. Sam clutches tighter at the amulet._

_"You can't sense him?" There's a hint of annoyance and exaggerated patience in the tone as no one responds to the question._

_"No, your Majesty," someone – a woman, barely eighteen from the high, childlike tone, finally ventures to reply, voice hesitant and breaking. " he…" She swallows. "He might have some sort of concealing amulet."_

_"That's right," and Sam knows _that_ voice – David, one of Sam's few contacts inside the government. He barely stops himself from exhaling in relief; David knows what he's doing. "We know that there's some connection between Evans and Quinn of House Fabray, your Majesty."_

_Sam finally plucks up enough courage to lift his head slightly, peeking over the apex of the building when Anderson sighs heavily._

_"Very well," he says coldly. Sam flinches, along with every other person within earshot. "You are all dismissed."_

_They leave, but Anderson doesn't follow, instead closing his eyes for a long moment before his lips curve – frighteningly – in an emotionless smile that doesn't get anywhere _near _his eyes._

_"Treasure your sister, Evans. She's starting to become rather more of an annoyance than an amusement to me."_

Sam brushes the memory away but it leaves the stickiness of fear on the underside of his brain.

"_Let me go, I will run, I will not be silent_," he hums under his breath.

"Did you say something?"

"Nothing, Quinn."

* * *

><p><strong>Althanowhere******

**_ Alright, alright…what's gotten you- actually_**, Blaine says hastily, somehow impossibly sensing the very likely expression of _I-want-to-kill-something _inhabiting Wes's face right now, _never mind. **Um…college thesis…which one?**_

_…How many did you _do_?_

**_Political economy, sociology, Ancient Estarian, evolution of linguistics…they're fun, alright!_** Also, Blaine likes libraries, and quite frankly, by the end of the first two, theses really became nothing more than an excuse to spend less time around Gabriel.

_…Right. Any chance of dragons in any of those?_

**_Unless political economy and dragons somehow…_**

_Somehow, I'm thinking not._

**_Well, there was the one…umm…effects of magical irradiation and force disruption on biologically stable construc-_**

_Dragons, Blaine. I don't know what 'biologically stable' means and I don't really care. Dragons. Did you talk about dragons?_

**_How could I not?_**

_How would _I_ know? You're the one who did the thesis**.** Now _tell me about dragons.

**_Wes, have you taken your medi-_**

BLAINE.

**_Dragons. Err…low-level consciousness to human-level consciousness, depending on breed. Not generally violent unless approached and don't generally like people-_**

_Funny, none of those words sound like 'irradiation' or 'biologically stable'. Remind me how you were even allowed to do your honours?_

**_Fuck off. They're good indicators of magical tension and trans-continental shifts. Changes in the magical landscape. Don't you remember that Emperor overseas a couple of centuries back?_**

_I'm a politician, Blaine. Not a historian._

**_(Clearly not a normal person, either.)_**

_I _heard _that._

**Good_._**

_Blaine…_

**_I was _busy_, Wes. _**

_Yes, yes, I'm sorry. Dragons, Blaine. Focus._

**_Magical experiments in the capital city._**

_…Sorry?_

**_He was conducting magical experiments in the capital city. Developing a teleportation grid fuelled by the life-force of slaves and prisoners. Charming man, apparently._**

_'City' meanin-?_

**_Vala'har._**

_…As in non-existent burned-to-the-ground empty-shell uninhabitable Vala'har?_

**_As in 'incinerated-by-dragons' Vala'har. The temporal chasms and whirlpools, the disruption to electro-magical fields…There's a reason experimentation doesn't happen around heavily-populated areas, after all._**

_Experimentation._

**_Yeah, but what's the point of-_**

_I've got to go_. Blaine frowns at the hint of desperate urgency in the thought.

**_Wes, is something wr-_**

_Thanks Blaine. And in the name of the Gods_, DON'T DO ANYTHING STUPID_. Seriously._

Before Blaine can ask again, a brief jolt of electric pain shoots through his nervous system, and he feels the connection shatter.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Lima<strong>_

Sam sends out a tendril of magic to open the door, but _somehow _St James must have heard them coming; he's already standing next to the door, complete with smarmy smile that's probably meant to look dashing but that Sam merely finds sort of creepy.

"Your Majesty, words cannot express how absolutely _marvellous _it is to see your gorgeous face again," St James says politely (Sam rolls his eyes as a way to distract from the fact that he's supressing the urge to punch the other man in the face), leaning forwards to kiss her on the cheek.

It's a testament to Sam's spying skills that he barely catches the whisper of "_Protection_?" that Jesse asks in the softest half-murmur he can manage, into the corner of her mouth.

Quinn's eyes flutter closed just before her lips brush Jesse's cheek. "_Activated_."

And everything _ends_…

…

…Well, not really.

But it's _never_ a pleasant sensation – _far _from it! – feeling all the magic inside of and outside of him just…disappear. It doesn't even leech out, gradually but inexorably. Sam's not sure if that would be better, but he can't imagine anything being worse.

The first time it ever happened, Quinn and he were fighting over a book. Sam remembers screaming and screaming because it was so _strange_ – disorienting, like being dizzy and blind and deaf in one ear, all at the same time.

St James actually yelps and hisses in pain as Quinn's Nullification activates, and even Sam (who's sort of very used to this by now) can't help but flinch slightly as the…anti-magic, he supposes?...spreads outwards like a circular wave, as though the lights are flickering off and leaving them with nothing but absolute blackness.

"Alright," Quinn says calmly, and he'll never understand how she does it; willingly blinds herself, rips out the thing that makes their blood sing and the world glitter with promises and hopes. "What have we learnt?"

* * *

><p><strong><em>Altha<em>  
><strong>

Wes manages to control himself enough to knock on the door to the King's study. Unfortunately, that control doesn't actually extend to him getting permission to open the door.

For the first time in a long time, Gabriel actually looks genuinely _startled _when Wes opens the door violently, stepping forwards into the room before it can manage to ricochet off the wall and back towards him.

"…_Wesley_…?" the King says slowly, unsurely, and by the _Gods _Wes is probably going to regret this but right now he couldn't really care less.

"I know what you're doing!"

For a moment, Wes is almost sure he sees the faintest glimmer of worry in the King's eyes – and then Gabriel meets his eyes searchingly, and Wes gasps as something cold and _slimy _seems to pass through his head, like some sort of phantom slug.

The flicker of doubt disappears, and those hazel eyes harden.

The King smiles – a cold smile, with no humour in it. "Oh, Wesley, Wesley, Wesley," he sighs chidingly, as though he's speaking to a child. "I really underestimate you sometimes, you know – who would have known you could be such a good liar? I must admit that for a moment there, you _almost _had me convinced."

_Almost_. Wes feels his heart sink.

"You have no idea what I'm doing, Wesley. Do you?"

It's impossible to hold that gaze, but even more impossible to look away. Wes manages to swallow. "N-no," he stutters. Gabriel laughs shortly.

"I suppose you talked to my darling brother, didn't you? I knew that sooner or later, an administrator as meticulous as you wouldn't fail to draw the links. I'm rather afraid that your dear David – and I'm sure you'll agree with me, no matter how much you care about him – isn't quite the analytical genius you are." Gabriel sighs dramatically, standing slowly. "If it's any comfort, I gleaned little satisfaction from the cyanide being administered to your soup," he says warmly. "But I really couldn't have this little moment of yours happening any earlier."

It's too much. Wes staggers back, wide-eyed, but knowing instinctively that he has to get as far away from the King as possible. "How do you – how do you _know_-" he begins, but he can't even think where to start.

"That you've been communicating with Blaine? That you're a telepath? That dragons – and I have no idea _why_, but that boy has always been a little…odd – made up three pages of his final thesis? Or that you and dearest David – lovely, talented, but so _oblivious _David – have been…ah…shall we say, less than scrupulous in abiding to my laws?"

The King says all of that as Wes, backed up against the locked door (he didn't even notice the stream of raw magic that had activated all the wards and locks), slid to the floor, knees no longer strong enough to keep him standing.

"You would have done better to have stood by me, Wesley," Gabriel says mildly, and though Wes isn't looking up he can sense the other man shaking his head in mock disappointment. "You and David and your…_relationship_…I can forgive. But high treason?" The King sighs, and Wes feels magic building up slowly in front of him. "Now, if there's a line with these sorts of things, I'm afraid you've overstepped it far too long ago."

Wes exhales, a long, shuddering breath. "I suppose you're going to kill me now," Wes says dully, not bothering to look up or call up his magic.

He closes his eyes.

_Sorry, Santana. Sorry, Blaine_, he thinks. 

_David, I love you_.

And Gabriel laughs.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Lima<strong>_

Blaine makes a rather half-arsed attempt to rouse Kurt, but gives up after only a few minutes. His official excuse to himself is that he's too tired to move. It's definitely not the fact that he actually rather likes holding his semi-fiancé, or that Kurt has absolutely gorgeous, soft, silky hair that defies the laws of nature and is somehow not coarse or brittle from the winter, or that the delicate porcelain features on one side of his face are matched only by the absolute splendour of the ebbs and shifts in the beautifully crafted glamour.

"I am very tired," Blaine says loudly, just in case anyone's watching. Or monitoring his thoughts. "Very, very tired."

_Don't do anything stupid_.

Would Wes think that telling Kurt the truth – the truth he _deserves _to know, the truth Blaine _has _to tell him – is stupid?

"He wouldn't."

_Yes he would_.

"It's the right thing to do."

_It's the _stupid _thing to do_.

"It's _my _choice, and _my _life."

_Your loss, too, not that that's my problem_.

"You're my own head, of course it's your problem."

_So stands to reason that I'm right._

"…That makes no sense."

_You make no sense, but you don't need me to tell you that._

Blaine growls in frustration. "You know what?" he says loudly out over the chasm. "Just…shut up."

_All right_.

"Well…_good_. Good riddance." Lifting Kurt off of him gently, he pushes himself to his feet – or rather, tries to. He gets about halfway before his legs finally catch onto the fact that they're missing a rather vital element (blood) and collapse beneath him.

When he finally manages to lift his head off of the snowdrift his face had been becoming rather intimate with to find himself face to face with (trust his luck) the edge of the cliff, Blaine almost decides that, since life seems to have it in for him anyway, he might as well…

_Don't do anything stupid, remember?_

"Shut up," he grumbles, lifting Kurt in his arms (one arm under the Prince's knees and the other wrapped firmly around a slender torso) and making his way towards the hoverpad.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Lima<em>  
><strong>

"No one knows what he's planning," Evans says grimly.

Quinn nods. "And we're not the only ones who've been trying to find out," she adds. "I've been collaborating with Rachel – via Mr Schue, of course," _of course_, Jesse thinks with a barely-concealed grin, "and I know that some of the more…_liberal_…kingdoms of the Confed. have been sending in spies and collaborating with us."

"But the Sensitives from the Western Plains have reported a shift. They don't know what sort, obviously, but there's something."

"And another thing. You know what my Talent is, right?"

Frowning, Jesse raises an eyebrow. "No, actually," he admits reluctantly. Which sort of is not good, considering that Jesse makes a living/existence/continued-not-dying from _knowing _things.

Evans smiles slightly, that ridiculously large mouth looking even larger than Jesse would have believed possible. "Destruction," the tall blond says quietly.

…._Wait what_-

"As in molecular deconstruction Destruction or-"

"As in atomic annihilation Destruction, Jesse," Quinn cuts in impatiently with a toss of her pretty little blonde head. "_Try _to keep up, will you?"

She sounds like _Lopez_, and if that isn't a frightening thought then Jesse doesn't know what is.

"Alright, alright," he says hastily, raising his hands in as placating a manner as he can. "That's…unexpected," Jesse settles for. It is. They're rare, Destroyers (probably because of the name, because walking into a bar and introducing yourself as a Destroyer probably doesn't really work). It's one thing to destroy things in the run-of-the-mill explosive, fiery sort of way; at the end of the day, all that really amounts to is changing the nature of mass. Completely eradicating the mass itself, however…

Jesse shudders because now he's sort of aware of why the Sun Kingdoms have been staying so far away from the Western Plains. A Nullifier and a Destroyer as sister and brother?

Also, it requires a re-evaluation of Evans, because Destruction is one of the most dangerous and volatile – i.e. hard-to-control – Talents around.

"Err. How good are you-" he begins, just in case he suddenly disintegrates into nothingness.

Evans rolls his eyes theatrically. "You're not going to just _disappear_, St James," he sighs – _funny, I thought Fabray was the drama queen _– "I'm pretty damn good, you know."

_As long as _good_ equals me still being here in ten minutes, I'm cool with anything_, Jesse thinks but doesn't say; he doesn't want to push his luck. He has the impression that Evans doesn't particularly like him, though he's not entirely sure _why_.

"What does this have to do with anything?" he asks instead.

Evans hesitates. "It's…look, I don't know if I'm just making a big deal out of nothing," he confesses. "But then I talked to Quinn, and she said the same thing, and you can't really be too careful with Altha because-"

"Hold up," Jesse says quickly. "Sorry, but _what_?"

Quinn and Evans glance at each other, and Evans bites his. "There aren't that many of us to begin with, right? It's a rare Talent, after all, but the best training for rare Talents was up north in Dadri. It's where all the best were."

He's still not sure where this is going but the anticipation isn't particularly pleasant. "And?"

"They're all either dead or missing," Quinn says quietly. "All the Nullifiers, all the Destroyers, all the more powerful rare Talents. There was a freak fire in the Dadrian Conservatory; dragons, apparently, but less bodies were recovered than should have been."

Jesse feels cold and jittery, the way he does whenever Finn tries to dance. "Funny," he says quietly, feeling a sense of dread building up, "because I heard that some of the most respected and powerful Sensitives have…mysteriously vanished."

"And Isari del Arava and Mercedes Jones were both arrested on charges of conspiracy to overthrow the King," Quinn puts in. "They're both Nullifiers like me," she adds unnecessarily, because Jesse knows that.

Knows them.

"Somehow," Jesse says through gritted teeth, because while he'd always thought Mercedes was a bit lazy and extravagant with both her magic and her Talent, and that Isari needed a good hair stylist, he'd still liked them, "this isn't looking coincidental."

Quinn snorts – it's such an unladylike sound that both Jesse and Evans stare at her, wide-eyed. "Coincidental?" she repeats, laughing shortly. "Anderson wouldn't know a coincidence if it masqueraded as his brother and propositioned him for sex."

_…What a beautiful image_. "Thanks for that, Quinn," Jesse says, shuddering at the mental images that accompany her words, no matter how determinedly he tries to repress them.

"Speaking of his brother."

Jesse looks up sharply. "There's no point," he says shortly.

Evans frowns. "You don't even know-"

"Yes I do. And there's no point. I skimmed through Blaine's mind when we first met, and…" He sighs. "You're not going to get what you want there. The poor boy's terrified of dear darling _Gabriel_." _And you probably know why_, Jesse thinks, amused, as Evans flinches at the name.

"That shouldn't matter," Quinn begins, "as long as he's strong enough…" She trails off, frowning.

"Strong enough? For what, exactly?" She glances at him, surprised.

"Isn't it obvious?" she asks.

"Yes, which is why I'm asking, because having people state the obvious to me is how I get off," Jesse retorts.

It's Evans who gives the answer. "Strong enough to kill Anderson and take his place," he says earnestly.

_…Damnit. I hate it when people stick to the obvious_.

* * *

><p>To his surprise, there's no one around when Blaine arrives back at the castle, shivering from the freezing cold winds that had picked up on the way back. So Blaine finds himself forced to navigate the passageways <em>alone<em>, with a sleeping boy making his arms ache (Kurt's light for his age and height, which is good, but the fact remains that he's still the same age as Blaine himself).

Finally after what seems like _way _too long, Blaine stumbles into Kurt's room, practically staggering over to the bed to place Kurt down none-too-gently on top of the sheets. He debates rolling the Prince over and tucking him in under the covers but eventually decides against it. He's not entirely sure that that wouldn't be a little _too _creepy for someone who has no romantic intentions at heart.

His heart tightens a little as he thinks those words. _No romantic intentions_.

_Don't be stupid_, his head thinks firmly to that squeezing in his heart. _Don't be stupid_.

_Don't be stupid_, as he sits on the edge of the bed, one large, callused hand sweeping away the soft brown hair from Kurt's forehead.

_Don't be stupid _as his fingers drift down to touch (_caress_) the smooth pale skin.

_Don't be stupid _as he watches his hand tremble over the curve of the other boy's perfect pink lips.

_Don't be stupid _as, breathing ragged and hoarse like he's been running a marathon, Blaine leans down slowly.

_Don't be stupid _as Kurt sighs in his sleep, and it's all Blaine can do to keep his mouth closed, keep the touch of his lips to Kurt's chaste and soft as, eyes closed , he leans back.

"_Don't be stupid_," he whispers to himself, sitting up slowly. "I'm sorry, Kurt," he says softly, hoping that somehow, the words might penetrate through the levels of Kurt's consciousness; that _something _might hear them.

"Sleep well," Blaine murmurs, brushing his lips against that pale forehead before finally, reluctantly, clambering from the bed (when did he end up crouched over Kurt?) and making his way to the door.

He doesn't turn around, and so he doesn't see the sleep-glazed but surprisingly alert eyes follow him out.

* * *

><p><strong><strong>**Next chapter: **

_"I heard you talking to Santana," Rachel says casually, and Blaine chokes on his bacon._

_"...Sorry, what?"_

_"I heard you talking," she repeats._

_"You mean..."_

_Rachel nods._

__I promise to (try to) get the next chapter out within the next week. Sorry again, and thanks for reading!

Love, Zayre


	18. Revelations

**_AN: _****I have no excuse for being AWOL for the past half a year. I'm so unbelievably sorry! Uni has been ridiculously hectic; and on top of that, I'm suing my school blah blah yeah exciting stuff.**

**THE FOLLOWING IS IMPORTANT: I'm going to be uploading this to Archive of our Own and massively revamping the story/updating it in consideration of the fact that my writing has changed (possibly improved I wouldn't know xD). I haven't yet decided whether I'm going to finish this arc (another 4000-5000 words) on but after that it's almost definitely going on AO3.**

**The account name is Zayrastriel, same as my fanfiction name. I also do open requests for any pairing in any fandom I'm in so yeah if you want oneshots just ask :3**

**Thanks so much to everyone who's been messaging me and basically motivating me/sticking by me - I'm dedicating this chapter to HarmonyLover, who is an amazing person and friend, and i hope this'll bring some joy to her day. This story WILL be finished, I promise you. In some form or another. At some point.**

**(ILY)**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 18 - Revelations <strong>

**_Jesse_**

"No," he sighs for what feels like the millionth time, leaning his head back over the edge of the couch and closing his eyes resignedly. He's tired, and can feel a headache looming like a tidal wave, strong and inexorable.

"Why?" Evans asks in that dumb blond sort of tonality that grates at Jesse's nerves like a…he goes with 'cheese grater' because originality and eloquence are evading him with all the skill of…well, his usual originality and eloquence.

He has a faint impression that he's either going to die, go insane, or fall asleep sometime soon.

"Because it's a fucking stupid idea, _that's _why," Jesse groans. "Look, neither of you have even _met_ Blaine. He's a nice kid, but about as wet as a marinated towel."

_There go my similes_, he thinks as Evans frowns, glances over at his sister's suddenly unreadable expression.

"That's not the point," Quinn says serenely. "We don't particularly care whether he's competent or not; just as long as there's someone to replace Anderson."

Jesse feels his eyes widen, and despite himself he can't help the feeling of grudgingly horrified respect stirring within him as he stares at Quinn. _She's worse than I am_, he thinks. _Is that even _possible_? _

But then, she probably doesn't know just what her plans entail.

"You do realise that without a strong King, the Confederation will collapse," he points out, careful to keep his tone as non-confrontational as possible.

"Well obviously," Evans sighs, rolling his eyes. "That _is _sort of the point."

"It'll neutralise them for centuries," Quinn adds, a cold, vicious smile touching her lips but not her eyes.

"And with that," Jesse snaps, because alright, there's admiration but it's also more than a little _stupid_, "there go solar imports, fruit and vegetable imports, _cows_," he can't help the emphasis on that because honestly, _beef_. "Have you bothered actually talking to any economists?" _He _has. Carmel has the best economy on the continent, and with good reason, because it also has the best School of Economics on the continent.

(That Gabriel has the best mage academy in Altha is immaterial.)

Evans looks taken aback by his vehemence and even Quinn can't hide a flash of uncertainty before her eyes steel. "It won't be that hard, surely," she insists. "Even if Prince Blaine isn't competent to rule, surely they can choose another-"

"Blood magic."

"Pardon?"

"What?"

"They _can't _choose another," he sighs through gritted teeth (whether or not that's possible, he doesn't know; but he's definitely trying.) "Blood magic. If they want to 'choose another', they'll have to kill him."

_Hah! _Evans full-out blanches and even Quinn pales slightly at that; but he presses on, careful to capitalise on his advantage. "And it's not just that. If you – if _you_, an outsider, engineers the death of anyone in the royal family, the entire Goddess-damned Confederation will not be allowed to rest till the Western Plains are _destroyed_."

"Since when did you care about people, Jesse?" Quinn asks sweetly, though it's obvious she's still a bit thrown-off.

He shrugs. "I don't." That's not entirely true, but it's not entirely a lie either. If Blaine dying was the price for Gabriel's death, it wasn't something he'd lose any sleep over; the kid's nice, and attractive in a young sort of way, but everyone dies someday and anything to delay Jesse's someday is fine by him. But Gabriel dying means the collapse of the main purchaser of Carmel's exports. Gabriel dying means insecurity and potential economic collapse throughout the Sun Kingdoms, which means that he'll have a shattering nation at his border, and war all around him.

Plus, Rachel lives here; stubborn, loyal Rachel. He owes her.

"When did we get to nation-destroying, anyway?" Jesse asks for lack of anything better.. "As far as I knew, I was just here to keep everything nicely on hold till we figured out what to, you know, _do_."

Quinn and Evans glance at each other, curiously similar expressions of frustration on their pale faces. "Well then, what do you think we should…_do_?" Quinn asks, making sure to be as blatantly forcedly polite as possible.

There's a knock on the door before Jesse can respond. "Who is-_holy shit_!" he yelps halfway through the question, shuddering at the sensation of magic leaping to life in his veins, veritable wild-fire coursing through him in a comfortable pleasure-pain.

"Lord Jesse? Are you alright?" the voice – one of the minor Lords he dragged with him when he came here – asks with mild concern.

"I'm fine," he manages to answer between clenched teeth, shooting a glare in Quinn's direction (she smiles sweetly and mouths an exaggerated _apologies _that he can tell she doesn't mean.) "What is it?"

"You asked me to tell you when Prince Blaine and Regent Kurt arrived back at the castle, sir."

_Finally_. "Thank you," Jesse calls, before turning back towards Quinn and Jesse.

"Well?"

Quinn frowns, obviously troubled. "Would you…we could…"

He takes pity on her. "I can arrange a meeting. The people who know, etc. etc.

"That sounds…" Quinn and Evans exchange glances. "Workable," Quinn finally allows. "But be discreet," she adds, an impotent order because she has no authority over him beyond that which being a pretty girl unfortunately offers.

"Of course," Jesse nods, inwardly seething.

* * *

><p><strong>Quinn<strong>

_Others _means two women. Quinn recognises neither of them, which means neither of them are important.

"This is all you have," she says flatly, glancing at St James.

The man has the audacity to _grin _at her. _Grin_! – as though this is some kind of _joke_. "Calm down, doll-face," he says cheerfully. "Don't get your…you know what," he cuts himself off, looking at her face with a hint of nervousness in his eyes, "just don't worry. It's all going to be fine."

Quinn raises an eyebrow (or at least, that's what she thinks she's doing, though it feels too much like an involuntary muscle spasm for her liking.) "Really."

"Hey, St James," Santana Lopez of House Anderson calls loudly, "Miss Blonde has a point. What the fuck is _she _doing here?"

It's amazing; Quinn's heard about Lopez, but she never really believed that _blonde _could sound like an insult in anyone's mouth, especially when they were sitting _next to _(or _on_, but Quinn refuses to believe that anyone would be rude enough to do that in public) the most quintessentially _blonde _blonde Quinn's ever met.

"More to the point," comes a murmur from the door, "what are _we _doing here?"

"Blaine!" St James exclaims, voice oozing saccharine glee.

Blaine Anderson's face hardens for a split second (_interesting_) before a slight, almost forced smile curves his lips. "St James," he says.

"Hey, hobbit, where've you been?" Lopez demands, lifting (_lifting!_) Brittany off her lap and stalking towards her half-brother.

Curiously, Quinn turns to St James. "What did you do to _him_?" she asks with a certain amount of interest. Oddly enough, he actually bites his lip with what seems like a certain amount of contrition before shrugging.

"Whatever," he drawls. "Not important…_Alright, listen up, people_!" he shouts. "I suppose introductions are in order. Blaine, Samuel Evans of House Fabray," St James says brusquely. "Sam, Blaine of House Anderson."

"Nice to meet you," Quinn's half-brother says politely, but Quinn's careful to watch his eyes and sees them flick towards her, the unspoken _Him? A King? Please _passing between them unnoticed.

Anderson glances at Quinn. "You must be Queen Quinn." His smile is warm, and his lips pleasantly cool against the too-hot skin of the back of her hand.

Over Anderson's head, she lets her lip quirk up in response to the marginal tilt of Sam's head.

_Not looking forward to watching him die._

A slight shrug from Sam.

_Hopefully it all works out and we don't have to_.

* * *

><p><strong>Altha (Wes)<strong>

Gabriel laughs – _laughs_, the sound rich and warm, and far too much like Blaine's for Wes's liking.

"You think I'm going to _kill _you? Why on earth would I want to do that?" Gabriel asks, sounding genuinely curious. "I've kept you alive this long, so I'm hardly going to kill you _now_."

Wes blinks. That is a _good _point, he has to admit.

That being said, he hardly thinks it was a ridiculous assumption to make, given the long preamble about high treason and such-

"Besides," the King continues, stepping back and leaning on his desk, "it's hardly as though you're going to remember."

_What_? "…Pardon?" There is something ridiculously surreal about being polite to this man, something disgusting and stupid and pointless about it; but habits are habits, and he supposes that Gabriel is still technically his king.

"When you step out that door," Gabriel shrugs, "you won't remember. And now, if you'll excuse me…"

He sweeps out of the room as Wes staggers to his feet and turns to stare at the door.

* * *

><p><strong>Jesse<strong>

They're discussing something, but Jesse can't say what at this point. It's all pointless, anyway; wasteful procrastination that there's basically nothing they can do. Gabriel's fucking good at the _I love to screw with people _game, and all they can do is try and reduce the collateral.

"Can't you break it?" Blaine asks suddenly, voice quiet. "Or tell Kurt, or something?"

Jesse is honestly quite disappointed that it took him so long to ask. "No can do," he replies, shaking his head in exaggerated sadness. "Kurt's the focal point of the whole thing. I sweep in with my stunning good looks and invincible magic and _boom_."

"What about trace magic?" Blaine argues, and the boy is persistent, Jesse will give him that. "If you could tra-"

"Nice try," and it is, but Jesse's bored, because this whole thing is _pointless_. "That's the thing about Compulsion – when it shatters it doesn't leave any traces. And even if it did, as if the King of the Confederation would submit himself to any sort of inquiry."

_And it's not going to save your life anyway, sweetheart_, his mind adds, not unkindly.

"So basically, we're fucked," Santana mutters._ Alessandra_, his mind tries to tell him. _No_, he thinks.

"I was thinking more along the lines of _Anderson_'s fucked. No offence, your Highness," Evans adds belatedly.

"_Oh_. _Oh Goddess._"

Everyone freezes; and then, as one, they turn slowly in their seats.

To see Rachel, frozen in the doorway.

It's entirely possible she just walked past in time to hear Evans, but from the look of horrified dawning comprehension on her face, Jesse doubts it.

_Great_.

* * *

><p><em>That can't be true<em>, he thinks without much hope as he pulls a Device (he has no idea what kind but he knows what it does and that's what matters) out from his pocket and points it at the door.

Wes stole this, about three years ago while leading a raid into a tech-mage turned hacker's laboratory. He doesn't know why he stole it, but like not knowing what it is, that doesn't matter. It's been useful, and that _does _matter.

Webs of shimmering magic threads waver into existence (or at least, visibility) and he slumps back to the floor. He's never been good at actually interpreting what the magic's saying, but the casualness with which Gabriel left him here, full of information that could easily bring down the monarchy (but not from the inside, never from the inside because blood magic is fucked up and why did he ever think this would _work_?) makes it obvious what'll happen when he crosses the threshold.

The threads vanish as he lowers the Device and slumps to his knees.

Part of him wants to call out for David, but he quashes that thought immediately as irrational and potentially suicidal.

There's nothing else to do.

So he pushes himself to his feet. Takes a deep breath. Closes his eyes.

Steps forwards-

_Memories that shatter into a million tiny glittering fragments that dissolve into sand and drift away in an unseen wind as he grasps helplessly for them_-

Wes blinks. "What am I doing here?"

Shaking his head to clear the remnants of what feels like a semi-fog clouding his thoughts (it doesn't work) Wes heads off to his rooms. Maybe he'll get lucky and David will be there.

* * *

><p><strong><em>Three weeks later<em>**

**Blaine**

So it turns out that there's one loophole with Compulsion; it can't knowingly be broken.

_Knowingly _being the operative word.

It means they can't repeat the same thing with Kurt (and they try, hard.) But at least now they know.

So now Blaine has to endure the pitying expressions of almost everyone he spends time with, as they keep desperately, futilely fighting for an answer. Rachel's not as vocal about it as Blaine might have expected; apart from a few indignant outbursts at St James, she's…kind.

_This explains a lot_, she tells him ruefully as they leave the room, safe in the knowledge that no one has any idea what to do. _I actually feel sort of better, knowing_.

It's a quiet few weeks after that; but not quiet in the tense anticipatory way that Blaine's life had been since he arrived in Lima.

What time he doesn't spend in the palace library, or in one of the many comfortably stuffy bookshops or public archives that have blurred together into one exhausting but oddly relaxing amalgamation of books, Blaine passes in Kurt's company.

They skirt around the day in the snow, though it's obvious from the way Kurt glances at him sometimes as though he's trying to be subtle (a miserable failure) that it's as much in the forefront of his mind as it is in Blaine's; but nothing's verbalised.

Except for one thing.

Blaine walks into Kurt's room one morning to see Rachel kneeling beside his bed as Kurt lies flat on his back, threads of Air and Water swirling around her fingers. Immediately, Kurt flinches upwards and then rolls on his side and Rachel jumps to her feet, placing her body between him and Kurt in a sort of instinctive protective gesture that makes Blaine's heart ache, suddenly and fiercely.

"Sorry," Blaine says softly, stepping backwards slowly. "I didn't know you were – I mean, I'll leave you alone-"

"Stay."

Kurt's voice is surprisingly harsh, the rough tone a far cry from the musical sweetness Blaine's accustomed to.

He stays, forces himself to examine every burn, every glimmer of bone through torn, blackened skin and loosened muscle as Rachel sings the glamour into being over the scars.

It's one of the most amazing things he's ever seen.

Wes scries him once, and something's off but Blaine is half asleep from staying up all night in yet another corner of the dusty library.

He and Rachel perform for their team (that's what he's thinking of them as, somehow, a team of the powerfully helpless in the unwinnable fight against Gabriel) once, laughing their way through a rendition of _Tonight_. They even get a smile out of Quinn, and Evans outright laughs.

One notable time, all of them somehow end up in the same bookshop two streets away from the castle. Brittany leaves and brings back a few bags of wine. The hangover the next morning is nothing short of traumatic, particularly when St James (_Jesse_) wakes them up at 6:00 to sing with Rachel, but at least they're all suffering together.

And he waits for _something_ (doesn't know what, but that doesn't matter.)

It comes sooner than he thinks, and not in a way he expects.


End file.
